


Weapons of Dark and Light

by Noyoki



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Iron Man (Movies), X-Men (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Explicit Child Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, M/M, Mating Bites, Minor Character Death, Multiple Crossovers, Mutant Experimentation, Slash, Torture, brain washing, extreme violence, mating behavior
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-06 17:47:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 36
Words: 350,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4231080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noyoki/pseuds/Noyoki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stripped of his humanity, Logan became Weapon X. When the doctors were through; he was little more than a remote controlled beast guided by base instinct. In contrast, Harry became Weapon IX and was stripped of his human trappings. Care, love, and compassion were torn from him, creating a superb machine who kills without remorse. Is that all they will ever be?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Potential Asset Acquired

**Author's Note:**

> This story is AU. The X-Men universe that I’m using for the majority of this story was taken from and inspired by Marc Cerasini’s book Wolverine: Weapon X, and will continue through his second book: Wolverine: Violent Tendencies. For those who’ve read the stories, my Director will be OOC. The original wasn’t strong enough for this story. 
> 
> The timelines are also going to be played with to bring everything into alignment. When I’ve finished the first two arcs, I will shift to the movie X-Men Origins: Wolverine. This fic will remain in the X-Men universe. The sequel will shift to the Harry Potter universe, bringing in all the characters from there. 
> 
> Harry is still the Boy-Who-Lived, Voldemort is still going to be around, and they will all play a part in the sequel. I might stop over in the Wizarding world to see how things develop while Harry is lost to them now and then.

* * *

“True stability results when presumed order and presumed disorder are balanced. A truly stable system expects the unexpected, is prepared to be disrupted, waits to be transformed.” – Tom Robbins

* * *

 

January wind howled around the edges of bland carbon-copy houses, plucking at winter stripped branches and moaning like forgotten souls in the blackest hours of the night. While the shades of paint varied, there was still a deep sameness about each shoveled driveway and trimmed house. Light flared behind the shaded windows at Number 4, Privet Drive. Not the dim glow of an electric bulb, heralding a midnight snack, but the radiant flicker of something more. Something unusual.

Sandy blinked, and gave a huge yawn when her room was filled with bright dancing light. The five year old frowned, a groggy pout curved her small lips when she peaked out her window and was nearly blinded by the unnatural light blazing from the house next door. Feet clad in footy pajamas swung out of the small bed and grouped for the floor. She’d gotten her new big girl bed for her birthday and she was still getting used to the difference in height. Once her toes found the plush green carpet, she looped an arm around Bibby, cuddling the well-worn unicorn to her chest, before scampering out of her room. 

Pushing open her parents’ door, Sandy crawled up onto the huge bed and bounced between her parents. “Mama, mama! The house next door is glowin,” the little girl squealed, just as her jump sent her sprawling on top of her now wide awake father.

“Ooph, guh. Kitten, don’t jump,” Mike wheezed. His large arms wrapped around the tiny girl to keep her from abusing him further.

Groaning, Kelly rolled over and covered her face with her arm. “I told you we shouldn’t have let her stay up to watch Hocus Pocus,” she moaned, desperate to get back to sleep.

“Really mommy, it’s glowing so bright I can’t sleep no more. My whole room is sunny,” Sandy said with the firm earnestness of a young child who believed in the monster living in her closet.

“Go show daddy.”

“Hey!” Mike didn’t get to protest further as his dainty wife kicked him out of bed. “You owe me for this,” he muttered, but he couldn’t stop a fond smile from forming when she blew him a kiss before vanishing once more under the mound of blankets and pillows.

“Alright darling, let’s solve the mystery of the glowing house, hm?”

Picking up the little girl, and settling her comfortably on one hip, Mike carried her down the hall to her closed bedroom door. His coffee colored eyes narrowed when he noticed the line of light under the door. It could have just been her bedroom light, but it wasn’t the normal soft white glow. No, this had a darker tone, more red, and it wasn’t constant. Dread stroked icy fingertips down his spine when he reached for the handle. This wasn’t a little girl’s flight of fancy, a phantom of the night to be defeated by a flashlight and a few words of reassurance. It was something else.

Steeling his resolve, Mike opened the door.

“Shit!”

“Daddy, that’s a naughty word,” Sandy scolded, a small smile flashed over her heart shaped face. She squirmed out of his arms and ran to the window. “Isn’t it pretty?” she said, wide eyes staring at the sheets of fire that had fully engulfed the house next door.

“Sandra, get away from there. Go get your shoes and coat, and tell mommy to get dressed.” His voice was hard, the DADDY voice, and Sandy ran out of the room. Her daddy’s sharp tone and worried face made her simple joy at the pretty lights turn to fear.

Tears filled her wide eyes as she pulled the covers. “Mama, daddy said we need to get dressed and go. The house next door is really bright now, and he said we gotta go.”

“What in the world?” Kelly huffed, climbing out of bed, she went to the front door. A startled curse fell from her lips when she saw the fire. Neighbors were already forming a crowd outside, and Kelly scrambled to get dressed and get Sandy into some warm cloths. If the firemen didn’t get here soon, the fire would spread to their house.

Bundled up in warm coats and winter boots, the Hendersons joined the growing crowd in the street. Sirens wailed off in the distance, steadily growing closer.

“Oh dear, I hope that the Dursley’s weren’t home,” a woman’s voice chirped.

“Maybe they were visiting what’s her name, the bulldog woman.”

“Henry! Her name is Maggie,” a prim voice replied.

“Marge,” Kelly whispered under her breath, not bothering to correct Mrs. Stanley out loud. The woman was an insufferable gossip, and it was amazing she didn’t know the name. After all, she and Petunia spent an inordinate amount of time whispering over coffee cakes and tea. Then again, Marge was a most unpleasant woman, so perhaps the name had been forgotten deliberately.

“I do hope they weren’t home. Piers’s birthday is next weekend, and Dudley is his best friend. This would just ruin everything,” Mrs. Polkiss’s shrill voice cut through the general murmur of the crowed.

Mike snorted “as if that boy needed any more cake, takes after Vernon he does.” Kelly gave him a light swat. “What? He does! Sometimes I think Dudley must be a clone, there’s nothing of Petunia in the little- ouch,” he hissed when his wife smacked him again. 

“This isn’t the time for jokes Michael. Yes, they weren’t the most pleasant neighbors, but they might still be in there,” she whispered back. He gave her an abashed look and cuddled Sandy closer.

“Look daddy, a kitty,” Sandy squealed as she pointed at the fire. For an instant, something that looked remarkably like a large feline made of flame stared at them before it flung itself forward to splash back into fire when it seemed to hit something solid. Mike shifted and shook his head, logic already dulling the sight into a more acceptable form.

“Fire’s a lot like clouds dear, you can see all sorts of shapes if you look hard enough,” he offered. But he couldn’t shake the unease that gripped his lungs. There was something off about the fire. _It isn’t spreading_. That was it, there seemed to be a perfect line around the flaming home that the fire simply didn’t cross.

Before he could ponder the mystery further, the blare of the fire trucks cut through the crowd and the group was forced back to make room for the emergency personnel.

“Who lives here?” The gruff fireman’s voice barked, demanding answers even as jets of water began shooting at the doomed home.

“Vernon and Petunia Dursley, and their son Dudley. They don’t have any pets,” Kelly replied, worry etched over her features. _I hope they were visiting Marge, I really do_.

“Thank you ma’am.”

* * *

 --- _The previous day_ \---

Tuesday began in the same fashion as every other day in Boy’s existence, with three sharp taps on his cupboard door, followed by the softer sound of locks being released in quick succession. The tiny child woke with the first rap. He’d learned from painful experience how to wake up all at once. Hunger gripped his shriveled stomach, threatening to pull a whimper from his throat.  He stifled the sound before it could slip out, not wanting to draw unwanted attention to himself.

“Hurry up and get breakfast on the table Boy. I have to go shopping today and Duddie needs to be ready early to go to work with Vernon for Father-Son day.”

Boy hardly felt the twinge of exclusion. His father had been a very bad man, a drunken womanizer who’d gotten himself and his tramp of a mother killed in a car crash. The crash that forced the Dursley’s to take a freak like him into their home. The litany of insults ran through his young mind, not needing to be voiced by Petunia to be heard in the silence. His life had been defined by their cruel words, and he knew that he wasn’t good enough to even dream of being a part of the family, let alone be included in something like Father-Son day.

In fact, Vernon’s coworkers would be stunned to learn another child lived in the Dursley’s home. 

The cupboard was pitch black, but the darkness didn’t hinder Boy’s movements. Once, there had been a naked bulb hung almost out of the short child’s reach, but Vernon removed it a year ago when he’d seen the gentle glow of light through the cracks during a storm swept night. Boy’s fear had gotten the better of him and he’d turned it on after being woken up by a loud clap of thunder. Vernon had come down stairs for a midnight snack, when he’d seen the light he’d wrenched open the door and with one swipe of his massive hand he’d pulled the string so hard the bulb shattered. It took months for Boy to find all the shards, and his feet still bore a few silvery scars from those that found him first.

With an exhausted sigh, Boy pulled a large threadbare t-shirt over his head. Years of living in the dark confines of the cupboard made the child’s movements precise and efficient. He’d memorized every inch of his miniscule domain, and no longer needed light to find his way. To some, the cramped space, streaked with dirt and old blood, spiders, and perpetual darkness would inspire terror. For Boy, it was a sanctuary.

The crusted dirt and grime kept Petunia away. That, and the proper woman would never get down on her knees to crawl into the tiny living space. To do so would be entirely undignified. Both Vernon and Dudley were too large to fit easily into the cupboard.

With gentle fingers, Boy coxed a fat spider out of his hair. He reached up and shooed the arachnid onto one of the many webs that littered the corners of his home. Even though the spiders bit sometimes, he would never think to kill the tiny creatures. They couldn’t help their nature, and they were even more defenseless than he was.

Boy bit back a whine of pain when he stood to open the door. Taking a slow breath he probed the bruise stained skin that stretched over gaunt ribs. A deep ache met his questing touch. The grinding pain, a gift from Dudley’s new hiking boots, had faded. Only the impressive bruises, and ache remained. Dudley’s muddy boot prints on the kitchen floor made Boy late in getting his chores done, and earned him another day without food.

Even though he knew he shouldn’t, Boy thanked his freakish nature for putting his bones back together. For some reason, the bruises always stayed, but the deeper wounds healed overnight. He didn’t remember when the abuse became physical, or the terrible beating that almost killed him when Vernon saw his underdeveloped magic had healed him after the first attack. His power wasn’t strong enough to prevent the abuse, but it could protect its barer after the fact, and evolve to keep his enemies from realizing the damage had been healed.

When the surface wounds remained after the second attack and Boy couldn’t move for days afterward, Vernon was satisfied that he’d beaten the magic out of the boy. The huge man failed to notice that grave wounds became superficial overnight.

Pushing the small door open, Boy stood and stretched before going to the kitchen. At the sink, he scrubbed his hands and face, knowing that Petunia would be furious if he dared cook without cleaning himself up first. Once clean, he began cooking breakfast.

If the kitchen curtains hadn’t been closed, the neighbors would have been stunned to see a child barely able to see above the counter tops, preparing a full English breakfast. Sausage crackled in a pan of hot oil, each of the fat links turned often to keep them from scorching. Next, Boy began adding the bacon. The mouthwatering aroma made him feel faint with hunger, and he had to focus on the sharp pain in his toes and ankles to chase the feeling away. Even with the footstool, he had to stand on his tip toes to see into the pan.

Moving with care, Boy flipped the bacon. He turned his head to avoid the worst of the grease splatter, only hissing once when a large pop burned his cheek. A miserable growl rumbled in Boy’s hollow stomach. It felt like the organ had devoured itself, and was now moving on to his other organs. How long since he’d last eaten? Two days, three? Boy couldn’t remember, but the hunger had become all encompassing, eclipsing even his normal fear.

Wide viridian eyes darted around the kitchen, his hunger prodded him. Boy’s hand darted out, grabbing a small slice of bacon off the plate that held the cooling meat. Pain licked at his sensitive fingertips, but he didn’t hesitate as he stuffed the hot bacon into his mouth. A low moan escaped his parted lips when the rich flavor exploded in his mouth. He’d never tasted bacon before, there’d never been any left over after his relatives were finished eating. More often than not, Boy had been forced to cook even more of the rich food to fill the endless appetites of Vernon and Dudley.  

Boy’s greedy fingers reached out to snatch another slice when his delicate wrist was caught in a crushing grip. Terror almost made the first piece of bacon re-appear, but he swallowed it down, too afraid of what was about to happen to add to it by being sick. How could he have forgotten the way Vernon could move silently when he wanted to? Clenching his eyes shut, Boy cringed, trying to make himself even smaller. “I-I-I-”

“Shut up.”

His teeth snapped together, biting the end of his tongue. The terror leaped in his frail chest, making Boy’s heart beat a wild tattoo against his narrow rib cage. Vernon’s quiet tone shook the boy to the core.

“So this is how you repay my generosity, my kindness for taking in such a worthless piece of trash. I always knew you were a bad apple, and here you are, stealing from me.” The words were a gentle, disappointed murmur, but the crushing grip on his wrist was a brutal counterpoint to the lying tone. “I’ve been far too lenient on you, Freak. In some countries, thieves would have their hand cut off for daring to steal,” malice darkened Vernon’s gaze as he studied the scrap of a child.

“Please! I’m sorr-“

Vernon shook the boy hard enough to cause his head to whip back. Delicate wrist bones cracked under the savage grip. “But, losing a hand would make you totally worthless. So…this will have to do.” Without warning, he shoved the Boy’s hand forward, driving it into the pan of now burning breakfast meat and scalding oil.

Pain, worse than he’d ever felt before, tore through Boy’s body. His mouth opened, but the agonizing wail was cut off before it could begin by Vernon’s other beefy hand. A low grunt escaped the man as he held the squirming child in place. Grim satisfaction filled him while he held the boy still, forcing him to accept his due punishment. _That’s it freak, suffer and remember your place._

The stench of burning flesh mingled unpleasantly with the stink of scorched bacon. No matter how hard Boy twisted, he couldn’t break free of the unforgiving grip of the man behind him. Agony roared through his body, and for the first time the pain was answered by his magic.

A wave of uncontrolled power exploded out of the small child. It crashed into Vernon with enough force to throw the massive man back. The wall behind the stove gave under the unbearable weight, leaving jagged cracks throughout the drywall.

Finally free, Boy snatched his mutilated hand out of the pan and clutched it to his heaving chest. Tears poured down his ashen face when he realized that his uncle was between him and the door. Keening terror held him paralyzed. He stared at the still form, and his heart almost stopped in his chest when the hulking man began to stir.

_No, oh no no no. Please, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry_.

Boy’s mouth tried to form the words, to beg, plead, anything to halt the inevitable, but his throat was so dry he could hardly breathe, let alone speak.

“How _dare_ you,” mad fury turned the words to a guttural snarl that would have done one of Marge’s bulldogs proud. Boy shrank back against the cupboards, mindless with terror. The purple faced man staggered to his feet, his eyes blazing with promised retribution as he advanced on the cowering child.

A thick beefy hand reached out to tangle violently in Boy’s wild black locks. With a sharp jerk, he pulled the shaking boy off his feet. Boy’s agonized shriek was short lived. Vernon’s massive fist plowed into his unprotected midsection with enough force to silence the child. Boy folded limply around the fist, gagging as all the air was violently expelled from his tortured body. The kitchen began to waiver, as if underwater, while Boy’s consciousness faded in and out.

“You little bastard, I’ll teach you to use m-m-, to use THAT against me,” Vernon growled, forcing his voice to remain low so the neighbors wouldn’t hear. Turning, he slammed the boy into the wall, relishing the crack of his skull against the unyielding surface. Even after the little monster went ragdoll limp in his grip, Vernon’s fury was not spent. His lips twisted in a savage snarl, and he threw the broken child to the ground. With a grunt of satisfaction, he drove his boot into the boy’s unprotected middle with enough force to bounce the small body off the wall. Again and again he kicked the child, until the floor and wall were both stained red, and sweat dripped down his vein lined forehead.

Panting, exhaustion finally won out, and Vernon grabbed the back of Boy’s shirt. He lifted the waif light boy with indifferent ease, and threw him into the cupboard.

“Vernon?” Petunia’s breath caught in fright when she saw the vibrant red stains in her pristine kitchen. “Is everything alright, dear?”

Huffing, Vernon pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket and swabbed the sweat off his brow. “That nasty little viper showed his true colors. He used that…that unnaturalness against me. You know I couldn’t let the freak get away with such nonsense. Like a dog that bites, he had to be corrected. Harshly corrected. He’s to stay in the cupboard, Pet. You leave him in there until I decide what needs to be done, do you hear?”

“Yes, I…I understand,” she whispered. It was unfortunate. Petunia held no affection for her dead sister’s cursed offspring, but she didn’t enjoy seeing the boy harmed. Still, it was for the best. She’d hoped that his unnaturalness could be tempered with the use of a firm hand, and by keeping him overworked and underfed. When they decided to take the boy in, Petunia starved the child, believing that magic was like muscle and bone, and that it would be just as stunted as his body if he wasn’t properly cared for.

Shaking her head, she gathered up the cleaning supplies and began scrubbing up the blood. Dudley was a sensitive boy after all, and she didn’t want him to get upset before breakfast. Her lips pursed when she finished the task and studied the damaged wall. Damage that had been caused by that wretched boy lashing out against her husband.

In the beginning, Petunia believed the boy was like one of those American Pit bulls. A creature that needed to be trained early in the ways of obedience, and that with Vernon’s dedication to the boy’s discipline, he would be tamed. Rinsing the pink stained bucket out in the sink, she accepted her mistaken assumptions. The boy wasn’t a dog that could be trained and shaped into a harmless pet. No, he was a deadly serpent. One whose venom would strike out at any who were foolish enough to handle it.

There were only two ways to deal with such creatures. Keep them caged, or kill them. Petunia stood, her back stiff as she dusted off her knees and began cleaning up the ruined breakfast. Cold resolve hardened the last corner of her heart that had pitied the boy. They’d done all they could to bring him to the proper path, but now she knew their efforts were in vain. _Vernon will decide what to do, and I…I will stand by him, whatever the choice._

* * *

Jagged streaks of lightning-like pain forced the broken boy awake against his will. An explosive gasp tore from his throat when he tried to shift off of his broken arm, but even that proved too difficult. Finally, darkness pulled him back down into its comforting embrace, and left a tide of gentle magic in its wake to heal the catastrophic damage. 

When he swam back to wakefulness for the second time, the symphony of agony his small form had been in the last time he’d woken had dulled to a body wide ache, punctuated by spikes of sharper pain where the magic still worked to knit him back together.

The dull thump of his heart was joined by the louder thud of feet on the stairs. _Please leave me alone, I’m sorry, I’ll be good, just leave me alone_ , Boy thought, desperation making him twitch and press back against the wall. Experience told him that he wouldn’t be able to move around for another day or two, but if they made him, he would have to get up and do chores. He didn’t even want the small allotment of half rotted food Petunia saved for his breakfast on the rare days she chose to give it to him. All he wanted was to be left in peace so that he could heal in the protective darkness.

Then what he was hearing registered. Heavy footfalls, not the dainty, almost inaudible mince of Petunia’s feet. Not morning. The quiet that swathed the house, void of Dudley’s ruckus and the distant thrum of traffic meant that night had fallen while he slept. Fear coiled like an angry eel in his belly, and snapped at his spine when he realized he’d missed a full day of chores and making dinner.

_Just getting a midnight snack_ , Boy thought, some of the harp wire tension easing from his cramped limbs. There would be hell to pay tomorrow, but for now he was safe. Living with the Dursley’s taught the boy the value of living in the moment, and letting go of the future.

“Are you sure this is the only way?”

Petunia’s soft question made Boy freeze all over again. She never came down at night. Her light step had been hidden by her husband’s heavy tread.

“It’s the only choice Pet, we should have done it from the start,” came the rumbled reply.

“I know darling, but what if the other freaks find out?” Fear crawled over the whispered words. Boy could almost see the woman wringing her hands as she followed Vernon down the stairs.

“Don’t worry, we’ll tell them it ran away. After all, boys run away all the time, why shouldn’t this one?” the man’s tone was nearly jovial, the sound of someone who’d made a tough decision but felt better for having made the right choice. “You’ll see, we’ll move to America. I bet the freaks will forget all about us. Who cares about one measly little orphan anyway?”

Terror dug bonelike talons into Boy’s heart, paralyzing the small child from the inside out as their words sank in.

“Alright. America, oh darling, I can’t wait,” Petunia cooed as she dreamed of her new home, and all the finery they would own. All the other ladies would be so jealous, maybe they could move to New York. Everyone who was anyone lived there.

Vernon’s heavy weight came to a halt in front of Boy’s door. Each lock that snapped open was another nail in Boy’s coffin.

That day at work, Vernon had been consumed with thoughts of the freak. He’d showed his own son the ropes, and worried about the boy, wondering when that foul magic would be turned on his beloved son or wife. Every time his back twinged in pain from being flung into the wall, his resolve grew. It was bad enough when the freak used magic to heal itself, undoing all his hard work at trying to teach the thing its proper place, but to use magic to attack him? In his own home no less. He couldn’t let it stand. No, this time the freak had done the unforgivable, and just like a rabid dog, he had to be put down.

For the good of the family.

Dropping to his knees, Vernon jerked the small door open. Petunia stood behind him; her hard eyes accepting what had to be done. Her lips formed a firm line that offered no help when Boy’s frightened eyes darted from her husband’s hulking shape, to her narrow one. Light from the hallway skittered over the sharp edge of the hunting knife Vernon had purchased over his lunch break.

Wide, horror stricken eyes locked on the blade that would end his short life. “P-p-please, I’ll be good. I promise!” Boy cried as he tried to push himself even further back into the dark recesses of the cupboard. Tears welled in his large forest eyes, desperately pleading for forgiveness, for salvation.

The knife lashed out, answering that plea with a savage rejection. Its tip scored a hot line across Boy’s cheek, but he jerked even further back under the stairs to avoid the full swing.

“No!”

Magic exploded outward and slammed into the chest of the muggle. Hungry flames tore through flesh with wild abandon, sending the massive man careening back out of the cupboard with a yawl of agony and into the startled arms of his wife. With unholy glee, the flames leapt to her. A serpent made of fire coiled around her lanky shoulders before its gaping maw snapped down on her horse like face, burning the scream in her throat before it could escape.

The wooden door slammed shut of its own violation while the fire stalked through the house with malicious intent, leaving the tiny cupboard untouched; its precious occupant kept safe from the devastation that had been unleashed.

Dudley stumbled down the stairs after waking up to the shrill screech of the fire alarms. “Ma?” He grumbled, rubbing his eyes. His yawn was cut short when he saw the smoldering remains of his parents, and the…things…that danced on their burning corpses.

A dog-like creature turned to him, its head cocked to the side, flaming tongue lulled out of its mad grinning mouth as it stared at him with merry ember eyes. Before Dudley could maneuver his bulk around to lumber back up the stairs, the dog was on him. Paws of flame sank into the fat of his back as hungry jaws latched onto the back of his skull. His piggish squeal was silenced when the fire crashed over him, devouring his flesh like Dudley had once consumed sweets.

Even after his tormentors had been reduced to clumps of fine ash, the magical flames raged. Shields once meant to shelter and protect the Boy-Who-Lived now hid the maddened flames from magical detection. The shields had been a feat of magical ingenuity, designed to hide any flares of accidental magic so that Death Eaters wouldn’t be able to track the child if his magic acted out.

Now they kept the hungry flames contained, protecting the world from the fire that would consume everything if it broke free. Caged, the fire turned on the house, burning with wild abandon, untouched by the fire trucks that attempted to stifle the enchanted blaze. 

* * *

 

“Sir, there is something of interest occurring in Little Winging, Surry,” a quiet robotic Voice stilled the soft rustle of paper. The Director of Department K set aside the field report on the latest attempt to acquire the subject needed for Weapon X Project. That one was wily, and had proved difficult to capture.

Warm firelight bathed the spacious wood-paneled office with comfortable light. The old man’s lips curled with smug satisfaction. Yes, the fire place set into the wall behind his custom mahogany desk was an indulgence, but that was the benefit of being king of his domain. Let the brassy young executives have cold offices of chrome and marble. He preferred his comfort. The dancing light glittered off a large floor standing globe set in the corner; one that housed only the finest brandy. Its Lapis gemstone oceans were a perfect match to the Director’s focused blue gaze.

Steepling his fingers, the Director leaned back in his custom leather chair. “Show me,” he commanded.

“Yes, sir.”

A high definition monitor glided soundlessly down from a hatch in the ceiling above the desk before settling in front of the Director. Lines of glowing green letters, symbols, and numbers flickered over the dark screen briefly. The scrolling text was replaced by a satellite image of a non-descript street of houses. The live video feed narrowed its scope down to a single house, one that had become a raging inferno.

The Director tilted his head, studying the image. There was something unnatural about the fire, but it took a moment for him to place the peculiarity. The fire had halted, dead in its tracks about eight feet away from the house. An invisible domelike structure appeared to be holding the flames in check, confining them to that house. He could have drawn a perfect circle on the ground where the fire did not cross. Another oddity was the firefighters who were standing around, not engaging the blaze. “How long has it been burning?”

“Approximately seven hours, sir,” The Voice stated. “The fire has not to spread to neighboring houses, and all efforts to extinguish the flames have been met with failure. Now, the firefighters are simply there to insure the fire does not spread.”

The flames remained consistent as the Director watched, even though he was sure the fire had consumed all available fuel hours ago.

“Curious, most curious. Sent Agent Zero to investigate this matter,” the Director decided. Perhaps it was nothing, but the slight tingle in his bones told him that whatever was behind the phenomenon had the potential to be of use to the Department.

“Affirmative.”

* * *

Yellow caution tape fluttered in the indifferent wind, flapping around the mound of ash that had once been a home. A non-descript black BMW pulled to a neat stop at the curb in front of the burned out remains. 

Stepping out into the chilled dawn light, Agent Zero frowned. The scene was devoid of emergency personnel. Now that the fire had been extinguished, it was expected that the firemen had gone, but where were the investigators? The lab technicians? Hell, where was the media? This place should have been a frenzy of activity, not abandoned. He thought he would be forced to play politics with the local law enforcement to gain access to the site, but all that remained were puddles on the sidewalk that were forming sheets of ice in the cold January wind, and the broken yellow tape.

Stranger still, when he stepped forward, Agent Zero noticed that the blanket of ash was undisturbed. No footprints marred the perfect grey expanse. “Sloppy,” he muttered. It was clear an investigation had not taken place here. Mentally berating the local law enforcement, and their utter failure to do their jobs, he ducked under the tape and started to step forward.

One polished black shoe hovered over the undisturbed ash when an almost irresistible urge to turn around and leave slammed into his subconscious. The tracker’s frown deepened. With a low grunt, he forced his way through the discomfort. Some mutations were flashy, and others grotesque, but there were a few that were subtler. So subtle, only DNA proved they were mutations at all. Agent Zero had one such mutation, the ability to find things, both people and objects. Once the object of his attention was held in his mind, nothing could stop him from locating it. Now, his particular mutation flared up, piercing a hole in the strange reluctance he felt for moving forward. His foot sank deeply into the grey ash.

With precise footsteps, he was drawn forward by instinct to a higher mound of ash at the center of the barren lot. Each step was softened by mounds of fluffy ash. Whatever had caused the destruction left nothing solid in its wake. Kneeling, Agent Zero reached forward and ran a hand through the pile of ash. His sixth sense tingled, alerting him to his close proximity to the source of the fire. Inches of ash were brushed aside before something solid met his questing touch. Encouraged, Agent Zero worked faster to uncover his find, revealing a small blackened door to the early morning light.

The brittle wood crumbled under the slight pressure, creating a hole in the wood. Exposed to the light, the bitter tang of blood wafted out of the cubby, whispering to his hindbrain that whoever was hidden in the folds of darkness had been badly damaged. The coppery tang was so heavy it warred with the acrid scent of burnt wood that hung over the entire area.

Reaching into his suit pocket, Agent Zero took out a pen flashlight. The bright beam showed the inner sanctum of the cubbyhole had been untouched by the fire. His light stuttered to a halt when it captured the small, trembling form in its vibrant circle. Terror-stricken green eyes stared up at him from a battered young face. _Careful now, a mutation as strong as this one needs to be handled delicately_ , he thought as he observed the tiny child. Such a small thing, to have caused so much destruction. How many people died in this house? Human remains would be impossible to find in the ash, the fire left nothing large enough to be identified. Odds were fair that even the teeth had been incinerated in the intense blaze.

Agent Zero knew that one wrong move would see his ashes to join the rest. With exaggerated slowness, he began inching his way into the confined space. Each movement was made in careful increments, giving the child ample time to protest if he chose to.

“It’s alright, I’m not here to harm you. You’re safe now. I was sent to rescue you,” Agent Zero surprised himself by how gentle his voice sounded. Power, pure and so strong it made his teeth ache, throbbed throughout the cramped space. It felt like a sound too low to hear, but still vibrated in the deepest parts of him. “We will make you strong,” he whispered, ignoring the sharp crackle of power that flared with his every movement. The words were spoken in truth, the Agent believed them with his whole being. Department K specialized in finding and shaping unique people, drawing out their inner strengths and tempering their weaknesses until they were more powerful than they would ever be on their own. Even as the power coiled threateningly around him, Agent Zero continued his slow but steady advance.

o.o.o.o.o

Fear sat like an elephant on Boy’s narrow chest, making it almost impossible to breathe around as the stranger, much smaller than Vernon, began to creep into his cupboard. _Who is he? How did he get here? Where…what happened to the fire?_ Frightened thoughts chased themselves around his head while he tried to understand what was going on. Vernon was going to kill him, but the fire made the man go away. Boy shuddered, a tiny whimper escaped him when he remembered Vernon’s horse scream before the fire silenced him forever.

The stranger was talking to him. Some of the keening terror eased at the man’s gentle tone. Boy had never met a stranger before. The Dursley’s told him that the outside world would hate and fear him for his malformed nature.That the normal people would destroy him if they ever found out about him, but there was no hate in the quiet words, no condemnation. The soft voice helped pull Boy out of his own tortured thoughts.

With heartbreaking slowness, his jade colored eyes struggled to focus on the present, and not the past. _He wants to help me? No, that can’t be right…Vernon said, but Vernon’s dead._ Swallowing hard, still wild shy with fright, one tiny hand reached forward before freezing. The charred flesh that covered his palm from his punishment split to reveal healed skin beneath. Unlike other wounds, burns were difficult to heal while leaving surface damage. In the hours between when the burn had been inflicted, and now, his magic had been forced to fully repair the damage. All that remained of the injury was a thin sheath of burned flesh over newly healed skin.

Boy gasped, his luminous green eyes dominated the ashen triangle of his face. Now the man would turn on him after seeing proof of his freakish nature, just like Vernon always said. Before he could jerk his hand back, a firm yet gentle grip circled his bony wrist. The thrum of power spiked to a near audible level, poised to strike the stranger down if he twitched the wrong way.

Instead of flinching or retreating from that heated power, the man began to peel away the dead skin, his face awash with wonder. “Amazing,” he breathed, once the whole untouched skin was fully exposed. Not even a scar remained. Boy could only gape at the man in astonishment. Never in his life had he been touched so gently, and to be touched as a result of his cursed power? Boy couldn’t comprehend it. The man didn’t sound scared or angry, he sounded pleased. With each soft touch, the crackling power dissipated.

Still terrified, the tiny child crept forward. To his further amazement, the man’s face didn’t twist in disgust, and he wasn’t shoved away. Instead, strong arms lifted his emaciated form out of the burned out remains of the cupboard that had been his home for the past five years. Bright sunlight, undeluded by curtains and windows, bathed the broken child. A pained sigh fell from his parched lips. The strain of the last twenty hours finally caught up to the depleted boy. Darkness swept him under, and he trusted the stranger to take care of him.

As Agent Zero walked away with the child cradled in his arms, the small shelter collapsed in a puff of ash. The structure, no longer supported by the boy’s magic, fell to dust. With a single flare of the brake lights, the non-descript BMW drove out of sight.

Cold January wind swept over the empty lot, erasing the deep footprints, leaving a blanket of undisturbed ash in its wake.

* * *

“Come along dear boy, we mustn’t terry,” twinkling blue eyes flashed with mirth as the old wizard’s brisk steps gave lie to his advanced age. Albus had spent most of the day getting everything just right, now all that was needed was for the last piece to fall into place. It had taken years of failed attempts to bring these plans to fruition, and Albus was giddy with success. Finally, after being thwarted time and again, he was going to have his way.

 “Must we walk, Dumbledore?” Severus grumbled. He pulled his midnight cloak tighter around his thin shoulders in a vain attempt to ward off the cold. The frosty January evening made the Potion Master’s joints ache, and the sight of Dumbledore’s easy stride only added to his bitterness at being interrupted. He should have known when the Headmaster gave him that old journal that something unpleasant was bound to follow. The experimental potions research the journal hinted at had consumed Severus with its potential. When the Headmaster appeared in his lab not fifteen minutes prior, he knew that whatever fool’s errand the old man had for him, he’d be forced to go along with it. _Nothing is ever given freely, I should not have forgotten that._

“Nonsense, Severus. A little fresh air will do you a world of good, my boy.”

“Where are we going?” He demanded, trying to worm more information out of the Headmaster. Each vague reply had scraped away what little patience he had.

“All in good time,” the old man grinned, making Severus more wary than before. Dumbledore hadn’t been this jovial in a while, and having all that good cheer directed at him was distinctly uncomfortable. It wasn’t often that the Potion Master was the focus of the Headmaster’s more lighthearted plots, and being ensnared in one now didn’t sit well with the dower man. He was a spy for Merlin’s sake, not one of Dumbledore’s foolish Gryffindor friends. Getting more information out of the old man when he was in this mood would be impossible, so Severus resigned himself to silence. The plot would unfold soon enough, and he’d just have to deal with the fallout then.

By the time the odd pair reached the Three Broomsticks, Severus was half-frozen, and fully convinced the Headmaster had overindulged in cheering charms. That level of joy simply couldn’t be natural, even for someone like Albus. Severus froze on the threshold when he noticed the building was completely dark. “Oomph!” A surprisingly hard shove from the feeble looking old man propelled him into the darkness.

“SURPRISE!” Loud voices were accompanied by blazing light. It took everything Severus had not to draw his wand and hex the lot of them. That, and the firm grip Albus had on his wand arm might have played a small part. The glower he graced the crowd of professors with stung almost as sharply as a well-placed hex, but no one seemed to care. No, the look of seer surprise that had fleetingly covered the dark man’s face before it was hidden with the sneer was worth his scathing look.

_This can’t possibly be…_ Severus bit back a curse after calculating the date. Now it all made a devious sort of sense. That sly old fox had given him the journal on purpose, knowing he would lose himself in the research. _I can’t believe I forgot my won birthday,_ he thought. Aggravation made his bitter expression all the more sour as he glared at everything that moved. For years, he’d managed to outmatch the Headmaster’s attempts a throwing him a birthday party. Knowing that he’d been outwitted was a bitter brew to swallow.

“Oh do try and have a little fun, won’t you Severus?” Minerva whispered in his ear when she gave him a friendly embrace. He snorted, but tolerated the unaccustomed gesture from the normally stoic woman.

“I suppose I have no choice in the matter,” he muttered under his breath.

“None at all,” she agreed with a rare smile.

* * *

Albus stretched and yawned when a warm beam of sunlight fell across his face at an unaccustomed angle. _Strange, the light shouldn’t come from that direction_ , confusion gave way to a wide grin. Memories of his glorious success after years of failure made his old heart sing. He’d been exhausted after the party, and chose to rent a room for the night instead of making the trek back to the castle. Flopping back onto the mound of unfamiliar pillows, Albus basked in the sunshine and the feeling of self-satisfaction.

True, Severus spent a great deal of the party glaring at everyone and skulking in the shadows, but that was hardly the point. Albus won their ongoing little war, and Severus acknowledged his achievement by staying a full three hours before vanishing like fog in the early morning light. Well, there were things that needed to be tended to, and he’d spend enough time lounging in bed. With a quiet groan, the elder wizard pulled himself up out of the comfortable nest of blankets and tidied himself before apparating to the gates of Hogwarts.

Shrill peeps, and an unusual amount of flapping met the Headmaster when he entered his office. Fawkes, still new and featherless after his burning day, flailed madly to get the old wizard’s attention. With aged, gentle hands, Albus gathered the small chick up. “What’s the matter, my friend?” he questioned, worry flavoring the words. Fawkes was rarely so active after a burning, and to be this agitated meant something of grave importance had gone awry. Another forlorn cheep escaped the small bird before his sad gaze turned to the shelves of trinkets. A silver top laid ominously still amongst the other baubles. 

His breath froze in his chest as the ramifications of what he was seen shattered his good mood. With swift care, Albus settled Fawkes back into his next before rushing to the fire. The flames flared green with the help of a fist full of flow powder. “Severus’s office!” Albus called, kneeling he stuck his head into the eerie green flames.

o.o.o.o.o

“This is a fool’s errand,” Severus groaned. Fat, fluffy snowflakes clung to his greasy black hair, further irritating the irate man. Bad enough that yesterday had been wasted on Dumbledore’s foolishness. Now, he had to throw away yet another day on mindless errands. Why couldn’t the old man check on the brat? It was years, _years_ , before he should have to deal with Potter’s nonsense, but here he was, forced to coddle the boy before he’d even made it to Hogwarts.

_Those shields couldn’t have been broken by a mere child_ , his logic tried to point out. A derisive snort met the thought as he walked down the snow brushed sidewalk. It was easy enough to ignore logic in favor of his own annoyance. _I’m sure the foolish child somehow managed to knock down the house. I’ll find it seething with agitated muggles, and a smug Boy-Who-Lived. It will take all morning to sort out the me…_

Severus’s body seemed to lock when he rounded a bend in the road and saw the vacant lot where Number 4 should have sat. Bright yellow streamers of muggle plastic marked off the property, but it was free of muggle authorities. Thank Merlin for that, he was in no mood to deal with people who thought they knew what they were doing.

The secondary wards had taken affect, snapping up anti-muggle words to keep the innocents out of danger after the primary wards had been destroyed. They had always been a precautionary measure, not something Albus expected to be used. Still, he’d put them up on the slender chance that the unspeakable happened, and Death Eaters found the boy. Keeping him with his muggle relatives had been a risk, but the elitist mindset of the Light’s enemies would never suspect that the child to be left in a purely muggle environment.

With difficulty, Severus forced himself back into motion. He attempted to come up with plausible reasons for why the house was missing. Reasons that didn’t involve Death Eaters, dead muggles, or worse by far, a dead Boy-Who-Lived. The closer he got, the more aware he became of the lingering stench of smoke, and the realization that the thick patch of snow covering the empty lot was far greyer than the dusting of snow around it.

Alas, denial could only go so far. Kneeing, Severus hesitantly scooped up a handful of the fine ash and gave up the hope that this was all a misunderstanding. Not a single cinder remained, nothing but drifts of pale gray dust bore mute witness to the destruction. With painful slowness, Severus stood, letting the ash fall from his numb fingers.

“I was prepared to hate you,” he whispered, his throat tightening around the words. Crushing sorrow clawed at what remained of his heart as another promise was broken. Bright green eyes flashed condemningly in his mind. _I didn’t believe I needed to worry about the boy before he reached Hogwarts, I never thought…_

* * *

Albus sat in his chair, his back bent with more than age. A small glass rose turned listlessly between his aged fingertips as he waited for Severus’s report. Every year he’d lived pressed down like stones on his shoulders and images, each more terrible than the last, invaded his mind. He should have gone, Albus knew, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it. No, he wasn’t ready to acknowledge that the worst had happened. Not yet. 

The fireplace flared green, and the fragile hope Albus had been nursing since sending Severus to Surry died at the sight of the younger man. Ash clung to the Potion Master’s black clothes and coated his long brewer’s hands. Dark eyes held darker shadows; no words were needed to tell the Headmaster what he needed to know. Still, Severus reported his findings in a cold voice that did little to hide his bruised heart.

“The house was reduced to ash. Judging by the level of destruction, I believe the cause was fiendfyre. The wards held long enough to contain the threat before collapsing after the cursed fire devoured everything available. I don’t know how they found them, or how they managed to get through the wards, but it is obvious that this was the work of Death Eaters.” Each word fell like a stone into a still pool, adding to the weight that threatened to crush the old man. How had they known the Headmaster was out of his office all day, and that Fawkes would be unavailable to warn Dumbledore that something went wrong? The implications of the attack made Severus’s stomach churn, and casted doubt on the belief that the remaining Death Eaters were as defeated as they’d all assumed.

“It would appear we were out flanked,” Albus admitted, defeat causing the great man’s head to hang. He didn’t look at Severus, instead he stared at the clear rose still held in his loose grip. Before yesterday, the rose had been a steady pink, indicating that the boy was safe within the wards. If the rose had shifted to blue, there might have been hope. Blue would mean the boy was outside of the wards when they’d fallen. That it was clear proved that the child had been within the bounds of the wards when they shattered. The odds of surviving what Severus described were non-existent.

“Thank you Severus. You may go,” Albus said mournfully, wishing to be alone with his grief. Plans needed to be made, but not right now. He needed time to say goodbye to the child who was lost to them.

Without another word, the dark man turned on his heel, and left. There was a bottle of Fire Whisky in his room that needed tending to.

* * *

Hours later, and halfway around the world, a small body was laid out on a sterile lab table. Nude, the marks of abuse created a roadmap of suffering over the emaciated form. Scars, old and new, fought for space with deep multi-colored bruises. An IV drip kept the boy unconscious while numerous scans and probes were performed. 

“Director, the review is complete,” the young woman’s voice was crisp and professional, untouched by the state of the child on the table. As a specimen, he was interesting, but in the end that was all he was. “Judging by x-rays of the subject’s jaws and the state of tooth formation, the child’s age can be narrowed down to between five and seven. In depth scans reveal that his mutation is quite unique. If reports are correct, it appears that it can be used in a number of different areas. His test show that all the damage has been healed internally, only external damage remains.”

The Director studied the miniscule form on the table. “Hm, he looks much younger.”

“Yes, that is due to extreme malnutrition,” she confirmed.

“I see. Write up a report, and prepare transportation. The subject is to be delivered to the Professor at the Hive. Include instructions to accelerate the child’s growth, mind wipe, and reprogram. Also, inform him that the subject is to be deprived of nutrients until after the growth plates fuse. The damage can be corrected after he’s finished growing,” the Director dictated. _Weapon X will be a frontal assault unit, but this one, he’ll be something else entirely. He will be a blade in the dark, slipping around behind the enemy as X distract them, and slitting their throats from the shadows._ “Have him prepped and ready within the hour,” he said before turning away, his mind already working over the details of the reprogramming the project would require to become an effective weapon.

“Yes, sir.”


	2. A Change of Plans

"Since changes are going on anyway, the great thing is to learn enough about them so that we will be able to lay hold of them and turn them in the direction of our desires. Conditions and events are neither to be fled from nor passively acquiesced to; they are to be utilized and directed." –John Dewey

* * *

The only sound in the airtight chamber of steel and glass was the soft hum of monitors, and the deeper thrum of computers forever processing endless streams of data. Banks of high definition screens threw an eerie glow on the polished adamantium walls. Fiber optics traveled the length and berth of the massive underground structure like fine threads of spider silk capturing bits of data instead of flies and routing them to the chamber. Not a sound or image escaped the attention of the rail-thin man who sat, still and perfectly erect on his ergonomic throne.

Angular glasses flashed when a pale, long-fingered hand snaked out to tap a code into the key pad. The central monitor flickered momentarily before it was replaced with a coffin-shaped stasis unit that sat, out of place, on the floor of lab two. The biomedical monitor attached to the head of the unit glowed a steady blue. Soft key strokes brought the next image up, a detailed report and precise orders from the Director. Slate grey eyes read through the directive yet again, after nearly three hours the burning anger had simmered to a dull throb behind his eyes. All his plans and schedules were dismantled with a single delivery.

_Subject IX –_

_The subject will be deprived of nutrients during the accelerated growth process. Once the growth plates have fused, reverse the damage caused by lack of vital nutrients. Make use of the Reifying Encephalographic Monitor to create a clean slate for further conditioning. Emotion should be eliminated, and obedience insured. Project should be trained to work in tandem with Weapon X, but retain human intellect. REM should be used for training purposes after Subject IX reaches full growth. Be advised that Subject IX is a mutant of undetermined powers. These powers should be developed to the fullest extent._

_The Director_

Now that the anger was banked, the Professor could see the advantage of developing this weapon prior to the primary project. The team he was assembling for the Weapon X program had never worked together, and this would be their first time using the REM machine to its full potential. Prior to this point, the machine had only been used as a training module by NASA. The machine used electronic waves intricately tuned to match the subject's brainwaves in order to erase memories, alter personalities, and even create false recollections to replace real memories. The scientists at NASA were too shortsighted to understand the true potential of the technology. Instead, they squandered one of the greatest breakthroughs in the history of brain research as a simple teaching tool.

_What a waste_ , the Professor thought as he began drafting a letter to Dr. Abraham Cornelius. The brilliant young doctor was the last member of the team, and the Professor was forced to move up the timetable and approach him sooner than expected. The fact that the good doctor found himself in a spot of legal trouble, if double murder could be called that, would make securing his aid all the simpler. The Professor wasn't sure if Cornelius's unique talent would be of use in this case, but he was needed for the Weapon X project, so integrating him into the team now would only benefit future endeavors.

* * *

The large, metallic examination table made its miniscule burden seem all the smaller in comparison.  _This place was never meant for children_ Dr. Hendry mused as he finished examining the specimen. Each delicate rise and fall of the gaunt rib cage eased some of the doctor's worry that the patient would die long before they got him in the capsulea. He had venomously protested against drugging such a young child, and the fact that the boy's weight was dangerously low didn't help.  _It's too dangerous to allow the subject to wake before the reprogramming is compete,_ the Professor's words lingered in the doctor's mind as he added another probe to document the heart rate. Steady brown eyes raked over the boy's starved, bruise colored flesh and the idea that this haggard child could harm anything seemed laughable.

No, the boy was clearly a pawn in some greater game.  _None of my business,_ Dr. Hendry silently scolded himself. He'd known when he accepted the job that it was going to be less that ethical. The temptation of being part of cutting edge research had overwhelmed any sense of morality he had. However, in the last three days he'd drowned himself in past research to deal with the new challenge presented to the team. Another probe was deftly placed, no words needed to be spoken between him and the medical team as they prepared the subject. This was simple in comparison to the invasive procedures they'd be completing on the primary subject before the month drew to a close.

In fact, this procedure consisted only of himself and a pair of support nurses to hand him the proper tools at the designated time. It was simple enough to place the probes, to get the life support systems in place, and then to transfer the subject to the capsulea. Again, the doctor was amazed the child had survived as long as he did. The boy was heartbreakingly light as Dr. Hendry deposited him into the vertical space. A water tight mask was placed over the subject's nose and mouth with an artificial umbilical cord snaking down the slender throat to provide oxygen, the bare minimum of nutrients needed to sustain life, and the chemical cocktail that would accelerate the boy's growth. Once all the wires and tubes were checked and double checked, the doctor sealed the capsulea and watched it slowly fill with murky green liquid. The interferon-laced plasma was a concoction of molecular proteins, cellular nutrients and a synthetic embryonic fluid that the Professor invented, and would play a critical role in the experiment.

A mechanical drone filled the large lab when the capsulea was brought to an upright position. "Everything is in place. Inform Dr. Hines that we are ready to begin the second stage of the experiment." Dr. Hendry said, dismissing the young lab assistant. Turning back to the new experiment, he observed how even in the capsulea the boy looked far too small. The floating shape took up less than half of the length of the containment unit, and if the experiment progressed as it should, then he would never reach the full growth most men enjoyed.  _I've never done such an experiment, how will the boy's growth be affected? Either way, it will be interesting to observe the outcome._

The doctor's mind turned to the orders he'd been given three days ago. " _Study the following research, and be prepared in seventy-two hours to perform an accelerated growth experiment depriving the subject of vital nutrients. Review what problems may arise and ways to counter them after the growth plates have fused."_ The Professor instructed.

Cloning was well trod territory among the scientific community, and was known to be dead end. Sure, there was potential in the subject, but during animal testing it proved fraught with impossible to overcome difficulties. The files he'd been given revealed that it hadn't just been animal testing that failed. There had been a program in the late nineties that explored the use of cloning to create super soldiers. The preliminary tests had been a success, and during the process technology was developed to accelerate the growth of the clones. After all, what was the use of a soldier if it took fifteen years for it to develop? Instead, the growth time was reduced from years to mere weeks. Unfortunately, the fully grown specimens proved fatally flawed and died after only a few months. The cloning project was an abject failure, but the accelerated growth technology performed flawlessly, and it would bring the child up to an age where it could be turned into a viable weapon.

_Well, it'll hardly count as corrupting children in a few weeks,_  he thought with a weary smirk that did little to ease the sense of wrongness he got whenever he stared too long at the tiny shape floating in its vat of chemicals.

* * *

The sharp no nonsense sound of heels preceded the woman, and Dr. Hendry forcefully suppressed a sneer. She should have been helping him prep the subject, but one look at the abused child and she'd turned on her smartly polished pumps and left.  _Just like a woman to get squeamish at the most inopportune moment,_  he thought when she entered the lab and walked past him as if he didn't even exist.

"Oh, Ms. Hines how good of you to join me," he said, his tone dripping poisoned honey.

"It's Doctor," the frosty words hung ignored in the air between them while her forest green eyes remained locked on the screen. She began typing, pointedly ignoring the other doctor. Not once did her gaze stray to the annoying doctor, or the small body floating in green fluid. Dr. Hines brushed a wisp of brown hair out of her face impatiently as she worked. The clatter of keys was the only sound in the large lab aside from their breathing, and the undercurrent of endless machines.

_Foolish, absolutely foolish to allow my feelings to dictate my actions,_  she thought, sensing her fellow doctor looming behind her, obviously watching her every while judging her. It was difficult enough to earn respect as a woman in this field without doing something so ridiculously…female. The man standing behind her would never understand her true reasons for leaving; he probably thought her sentimental or something equally weak. He could never understand that it hadn't been compassion or concern or any other soft female emotion that filled her at the sight of the child (the baby). The moment she'd laid eyes on the new subject, the doctor had pulled one drugged eyelid back revealing a half moon of perfect emerald.

A mere two shades lighter than her own forest green orbs. Her uterus twitched at the thought, and Dr. Hines's lips thinned, making her elfin face look pinched as she shoved down hated memories of her father and the reason she couldn't stand the sight of children.

"The REM has successfully interfaced with the subject's brain." Dr. Hines said, more for the benefit of the Professor, who undoubtedly was watching the procedure, than for the man behind her. A snort of derision met the words, but it was ignored with practiced ease. He wouldn't be the first person to doubt her skill, and as a woman in her field she doubted he would be the last. "Beginning mind stripping now." The words were spoken with robotic efficiency, but she couldn't quite hide the satisfaction in her tone. Nothing like this had been attempted before, and the idea of completely obliterating someone's existence and recreating them from the ground up had an appeal unlike anything she'd ever known.

* * *

Unnoticed by the pair of doctors, the body jerked once before falling still.

_A stranger with hard brown eyes kneeled, and held out a hand to him, offering not comfort but strength…_

_Agony blazed as his flesh burned, the smell of his burning hand mingled with the stench of burnt bacon…_

_The dizzying odor of too many cleaning chemicals in too tight a space, small unprotected hands burning from the bleach as he scrubbed every inch of the bathroom to Petunia's exacting standards…_

_Soft sibilant whispers that spoke of warm sunning rocks, cool ponds, and easy hunting…so close, yet never having the nerve to speak back while he pulled weeds by moonlight so that the neighbors wouldn't see him…_

_Gently plucking the spiders off his clothes before dressing in the morning…_

_The terrible pain of bone cracking when Vernon twists his arm too hard…_

_Tears as the teddy Dudley was going to throw away was found in his cupboard and torn apart by a furious Petunia…_

_Wind chapping plump baby cheeks as he held on for dear life to the man, larger than any he'd ever known before while they flew though the sky, the deep rumble of the machine quiet compared to the the giants bellowed sobs…_

_Terror, being clutched in a too tight grip as they run, a man's voice shouting for them to escape. A door slamming shut and a woman weeping, wood shattering and brilliant green light…_

_The bitter smell of potions ingredients, dark obstinate eyes glaring down at him as he's held in an inexperienced grip. "You'll protect him won't you…if anything happens?" A lovely voice, tight with worry. "Yes," gruffer, hiding emotion that will never be voiced…_

_Laughter, and a tiny broom hovering in the living room, gentle hands braced on his shoulders so he doesn't fall off…_

_Lying against a broad chest, listening to a calm voice patiently read the same story again because it is his favorite…_

_A soothing touch and soft lullaby chased away a bad dream, banishing the darkness away…_

_Spiky black fur clenched between tiny fists as blubbering laughter is met with the swipe of a large pink tongue…_

_The first taste of string beans and a man's rumbling laugh as they are emphatically rejected…_

_Warmth and comfort, curled tightly in a ball of protection. A deep thumping vibrates the world and muffled indistinct voices create a pleasant counter note…_

Memory after memory was broken down and destroyed by countering waves of energy, and piece by piece, the Boy-Who-Lived was erased.

* * *

"The mind-wipe is compete. The subject will be ready for re-mapping after he's finished growing." A small smile of accomplishment brushed feather light across her lips as she stood. Another snort met this announcement, but the perfectly blank scan of the subject's brain waves was a silent declaration of her success.

"It works on a child," the word made her grit her teeth slightly. "But will it work on an adult?" Dr. Hendry demanded, still doubtful that they needed the woman or her machine.

A strained smile met his words as Dr. Hines kept her annoyance in check. "First of all, what we're doing with the b- the subject is completely different from what we will be doing to Weapon X. With that project we will be removing the lairs of humanity to expose the beast that lurks in every man." The subtle snub wasn't lost on the doctor. "But, with Subject IX, we removed everything. Every memory, every experience, thought or emotion was wiped clean. In this moment, Subject IX is like a new born, no even less than that. Even a newborn has memories from inside the womb as well as the birth and after. He has none of these, now there will be nothing left of his prior existence to pollute what we are trying to create." The words held a clinical sort of passion, even if they halted slightly on different phrases such as womb and newborn.

"We'll see," the doctor said snidely before he turned and left, still firm in his belief that the project didn't require such obscure techniques to succeed.

* * *

Both doctors left the lab, and the electronic lights dimmed. Eerie green shadows cast by the capsulea filled the silent space that echoed with the memories of experiments past, present, and future. Even in total stillness, the lab felt alive, waiting for the moment when it would spring into motion once more to twist and shape the living into something more.

The Professor shook off his obscure thoughts and focused on reviewing the performance of his doctors. It left much to be desired, but in the end he had to make do with what he had.  _The woman was foisted upon me by the Director, and if it wasn't for the fact that she's the top, scratch that, one of the_ only  _experts at operating the REM machine, then I would get rid of her for that little stunt._ Women were creatures governed more often than not by emotion, and her reaction to the child was simply further proof of that truth.

_Then again, the woman didn't require extra training, and prior to that minor lapse in judgment, has proven efficient in her job. More importantly, she is malleable. The sort who will work herself to death without complaint, and not waste valuable time asking troublesome questions. She is not a queen, nothing more than a perfect worker, a drone._ The Professor dismissed the woman from his thoughts. She'd successfully performed her duty, and though there was friction between her and Henley, he expected both of them to behave like professionals. "Now all that is missing is the final player and the show can begin," he mused.

* * *

Cutler ran his large hand though his short, sandy blond hair and winched when a stray hair caught under the surgical tape was pulled free.  _That one had been a fighter for sure_ , he thought, remembering the brute of a man who'd left behind the two inch souvenir on his forehead. His ears were still hot from the royal ass chewing they'd received over the condition of their precious subject was in after the team delivered Logan to the eggheads. They didn't seem to give a damn about Erdman, whose lung had been skewered by his own rib during the fight.  _Damn eggheads, I'd like to see them take down a mark like Logan without harming a single hair on his head ridiculously hard head._

The elevator lurched to a stop at the lowest level, and Cutler's bitter mood soured further. Prior to the wild goose chase that had crisscrossed the American/Canadian border more than once, he and the rest of the guards had been stationed here while the scientists got their beakers in a row. The scientists other test subjects had also arrived during that time.  _Whatever happened to white mice and monkeys?_  Cutler wanted to know. Oh no,  _these_  eggheads wanted something with a little more…bite.  _Lions and tigers and bears, oh my._

"Well, at least I only have to feed the human animals," he grumbled as he wheeled the trolley down the bare stone hallway. Playing maid to a bunch of convicts wasn't his idea of a good time, but when he'd returned with Logan in tow he'd been promoted to security chief, and received Class A security clearance for his trouble. "And what did that get me? The highest clearance needed to stop feeding the damn bears, and start feeding the bloody criminals," he snorted.

"HEY, WHEN WE GETTA PLAY?" A gruff voice shouted after he slid a delicious and nutritious blob of something brown on a trey through the bottom slot of the first door. There were twelve in all, and Cutler already had a headache. It was pointless to encourage the riffraff by answering, so he sauntered down the hall, ignoring cat calls, pleas for information, and curses. He actually didn't know who these people were or why they'd been installed in cells that had been empty when he'd left, but Cutler could guess.

"Eat up boys, and save your strength…I'm sure you'll need it,: e tossed over his shoulder before heading back to the elevator.

* * *

At precisely 0900, Cutler drove the flatcar into the massive lab. On a normal day, only a small portion of the air plane hanger sized lab, located one level above the adamantium smelting plant, would be in use. But, when the elevator opened Cutler was amazed to see the entire room blazing with light, and buzzing with frantic activity. Red lights flashed, and a sign proclaimed WARNING. ZONE UNDER QUARINTINE. The aggravating itch on the tip of his nose that he couldn't scratch was just one more annoyance of wearing the pressurized environmental suit, but without it the toxic atmosphere designed to kill any contaminants that might be tracked into the lab would kill him as easily as any germ.

After he brought the cart to a gliding stop, the flatcar was swarmed with pressure suit sheathed lab techs who all but shoved him out of the way. They wheeled the flatbed to the base of the enormous tank that held the prime position in the center of the lab. With practiced ease, the techs attached the smaller holding tank to the larger vessel. Long minutes passed while the larger tank was pumped with gallons of the green biological fluid that the smaller tank was already full of. Once the pressure between the two containment units reached an equilibrium, the sealed door between them opened and the subject was skillfully wafted into the larger tank.

One of the smaller lab techs opened a hatch on the top of the tank, and squirmed though the tight opening, EH suit and all. After hooking up all the necessary life-support tubes and systems, the tech began checking each of the hundred or more probes that had been placed in the subject's flesh the night before. Each connection was checked with a handheld sensor to insure that they were secure and properly placed.

It took nearly fifteen minutes as faulty probes were flagged by the first tech and a second, who had also squeezed into the tank, replaced the marked probes. Finally, the task was compete and with matching grins and a thumbs-up, the two techs climbed out of the tank and sealed the hatch behind them. More of the strange green fluid gushed into the space left behind until the tank was full to the brim. While the large bank of computers forming a half circle around the central tank began interfacing with the probes and scroll an endless stream of data, the eggheads fell into an intense session of technobable.

Cutler suppressed the urge to roll his eyes at the excited men and women, who were more like children on Christmas morning than adults with far too many letters after their names. When the conversation degraded to the point where he could only understand one word out of ten, Cutler's attention wandered around the huge lab.

His board gaze was captured by the capsulea situated against the wall behind the bevy of activity at the center of the room. The scientists were too wrapped up with their new toy to notice the guard wander away from the group and stop in front of the upright capsulea. Blue eyes traced over the nude form suspended in more of the green goo and a frown tugged at his lips when he reached out to hesitantly touch the glass.  _Jesus, don't they feed their lab rats anymore?_  He wondered. It, better to think of it as that instead of as a little boy, was brutally thin. Ghostly pale skin, tinted green from the liquid, was stretched taunt over bone. It looked like his cheek bones would cut though the tissue thin skin any moment.  _What the hell are they doing? This can't be any sort of weapon. He'd probably die the minute they pulled him out of the jar._ It was moments like this that made Cutler wonder what the hell these doctors were really about.

Nearly three weeks had passed sense Subject IX was placed in the capsulea, and in that time all his external wounds had healed. Most of his scars had faded and would soon disappear all together. All but one, the curious lightning shaped scar had a vividness to it that no other scar managed to achieve. Unlike the rest, no matter how terrible always faded, this scar remained untouched. The chemical cocktail he was being fed had done its work, and the boy no longer looked like little more than a toddler. Tiny by all normal standards, he still managed to grow, and now appeared to be a child of nine or ten.

"Everyone not part of the next phase of the experiment must depart the lab immediately." The Professor's commanding voice cut though the techs babble and jerked Cutler's attention from the emaciated specimen. He'd been so involved with his thoughts that he hadn't noticed the lab's atmosphere had been cleansed and replaced with filtered air after the main tank had been sealed. He could have gotten out of the dreaded EH suit as soon as the air was breathable. Too late now, he'd have to settle with un-suiting once he scooted his butt out of the lab. It didn't take a genius to know that when the Professor spoke, the peons of the Hive listened, and he was no exception.

* * *

Dr. Cornelius watched as all un-needed personnel vacated the lab, and wondered again why he made the list of people who remained behind. Not that long ago, Cornelius wouldn't have considered himself a modest man, but life on the run, and being blackmailed into joining this project had been a major blow to his pride. The rest of the team was rather cold and distant towards him due to his less than desirable criminal history, and the fact that he was new to the project.

There were others on the team who had dedicated their lives to this project. Subject X was their master work, and the thought of some outsider coming in and being part of the team didn't sit well with them. He hadn't had a part to play with Subject IX, but with X, though the part was small, it was vital.

"Are you certain, Dr. Cornelius that your nanochips won't degrade the integrity of my adamantium bone sheathing?" Dr. Hendry demanded in a hostile tone as he eyed the younger man with distain.

"Being that bone is in and of itself an origin, and performs a much needed service to the body, I'm sure that they not only won't degrade your sheathing but will instead make it viable. Once the silicon-based chips, fitted with tiny valves, and encoded with memory are injected into the heart they will quickly disperse though the body and adhere to the tiny sinuses of the bone and permit blood to flow freely once the adamantium sheathing is complete. My nanochips can withstand the white-hot molten adamantium because they are three times stronger than the metal itself. So, the real question, Dr. Hendry, is whether or not your adamantium sheathing will degrade the integrity of my nanotechnology," Cornelius replied calmly.

"Your conclusion, Doctor?" Hendry demanded.

"Absolutely not. The two processes, while complex, are actually complimentary-"

"Complimentary or contradictory?" Hendry snapped.

"-which means that despite their differences, the technologies will work together to achieve the common goal of making the subject's bones indestructible."  _And without my nanotechnology his bones would be sealed, and the subject would die a rather slow, agonizing death due to the inability of his body to manufacture blood,_ Cornelius thought, but didn't say out loud.

"It is reassuring to hear you say that. There are those of us who've spent years on this project"  _Bingo, there's the source of the pushback, I'm the new guy._ "You understand our trepidation of course, we wouldn't want years of research to go to waste through the use of radical, untested technology developed by an unknown such as yourself," Hendry added with a snide twist of his lips.

Further debate was silenced by the voice that crackled over the loud speaker. "The bonding procedure will begin in thirty minutes. All personnel take your positions to begin pre-bonding procedures."

Once everyone was in place, the Professor turned his attention to Dr. Hines. "Interface the REM with the subject's brain now."

Ten seconds passed as commands were entered into the computer. "Interface has been achieved, Professor." She replied crisply.

"Deactivate the brain dampeners," The Professor said with a sharp nod to Dr. MacKenzie. The flick of a switch deactivated the generators that had, up until this point, provided a steady stream of ultrasonic waves that paralyzed Subject X's brain. The measure had been required in the preliminary stages yesterday when it became obvious that normal tranquilizers did not keep the subject sedated.

"There was a slight spike in brain activity." Dr. MacKenzie warned.

"It's an error,: came Dr. Hines sharp response.

"An error? Are you sure? You know that even the slightest amount of brain activity at this juncture could result in the subject retaining facets of his personality, even after the conditioning is compete," the redheaded doctor said as he eyed the readouts.

"It is an anomaly that's been observed in subjects before. Spikes can occur when the subject's sleep is disturbed. It has been theorized that the spikes are a result of random electrical activity in the hypothalamus, or chemical reactions within the pituitary stalk." Dr. Hines said with a shrug.

"What does the encephalographic monitor show now Dr. Hines, Dr. Mackenzie?" The Professor asked.

"Interface with REM has been successful, and as of now there is no brain activity that we do not directly control." Dr. Hines confirmed.

"Perhaps Dr. Hines is correct in her hypothesis, the screen is blank now." Dr. Mackenzie added grudgingly, still not convinced.

"That's acceptable, lets proceed with stage one," the Professor turned to Dr. Cornelius. "Inject the nanochips now."

Swallowing once in an attempt to dampen his dry throat, Dr. Cornelius complied. It would work, he was certain of that, but if it didn't…best not to think of that.

M-A-D-E-L-I-N-Ehe keyed.

The screen flashed: ACCESS CONFIRMED

With one last worried breath, he pressed enter and initiated the injection process.

Inside the containment unit, a hydraulic whine was heard. A large needle descended, never pausing as it cut easily though skin, muscle and bone before plunging into the subject's still beating heart. The subject jerked once, before continuous thrashing set alarms off on half a dozen monitors, and sent specialists and technicians scurrying to solve the problem before too much damage was done.

Finally the thrashing subsided, and the alarms were silenced. Systems needed to reboot as the probes were tested to make sure they still functioned properly, and none of the seals had been broken. "Was the nanotechnology successful?" The Professor demanded, once order was again achieved.

"Yes sir. The process is complete, if you look here." He pointed to a full body ultrasound which showed the subject's bone structure now riddled with tiny black dots.

"Are you sure that your nanotechnology wasn't the cause of the seizure?" The Professor demanded, pinning the doctor with a hawk-like gaze.

"Absolutely."

"Then we must turn our attention on you, Dr. Hines," the Professor hissed. His glacial gaze shifted from the doctor to pinned the woman to her seat.

"While I still believe that the spike was an anomaly, I purpose we reboot the system and begin the interface again from scratch just to be safe. It will take an hour to accomplish," she conceded, causing Dr. MacKenzie to shot her a smug look. The psychologist hadn't been pleased to find his position upstarted by the woman and her voodoo machine.

"One hour." The Professor confirmed as he headed back to the upper level.

* * *

Once everyone reconvened, and all the systems were back online, the Professor said with a sharp smile "Let's make history."

"Feed" Dr. Chang, the metallurgist who was known for his breakthrough innovations with rare alloys, commanded.

A soft, angry hiss was heard when super heated metal flowed from the holding tank into feeder tubes that snaked into the containment unit.

"Steady, the adamantium breakdown is twenty-nine to one, sir. I'll compensate." Dr. Chang said.

"No, it will even out." The Professor stated without concern.

"Feed."

"Stead."

"Cardiotach?" The Professor questioned. Dr. Hines glanced at the screen, a slight frown brushed her lips.

"High, higher than we anticipated," she confirmed. The green liquid bubbled furiously, and Subject X bobbed in the seething fluid. He would either make history, or die in the effort.

Dr. Chang's fingers flew over the keyboard, controlling the flow of the molten adamantium, any interruption in the flow could lead to catastrophic consequences. "Steady…"

"Suffusion enacting…now!" Instantly the activity in the holding tank increased to a frightful level when the superheated metal filled the feeder tubes and the heat was transferred to the chemical brew. Subject X was completely hidden by the churning liquid. "Feed."

On the screen, Dr. Chang watched with rapt attention as x-rays revealed the ghostly white bones painted over with darkness. As the process continued, the Professor magnified the right femur three hundred times to get a closer look at the nanotechnology, and saw to his satisfaction that the chips were protecting the delicate fissures in the bone as well as the veins and capillaries that ran though them.

"Feed, and suffusion?" The Professor asked.

"Both remain steady." Dr. Chang confirmed.

"Sir, the subject's heart rate is increasing rapidly. It is at 198 per minute and increasing." Dr. Hines said.

"Dr. Hendry?"

"I believe the nanotechnology is at fault."

"Now wait just a minute…" Dr. Cornelius protested.

"The ultrasound shows grey flakes in the subject's heart that weren't there before. Dr. Cornelius miscalculated and his chips are treating the dense heart muscle like bone, with predictable results." Dr. Hendry surmised.

"Why didn't you prepare for such an eventuality?" The Professor's tone was dark with warning.

Dr. Cornelius quickly brought up the medical records for the subject in an attempt to understand what was going wrong. There was no reason for his chips to return to the heart, they hadn't been there a moment ago.

"The rate of adamantium absorption is triple what it should be." The metallurgist warned sharply, bringing the Professor's attention back to him. "There is leakage, trace amounts of adamantium have been detected in the fluid."

"A broken valve?"

"No, it appears to be…elimination. The metal is being passed though his pores. His liver and lymph nodes are treating the metal like an infection or a toxin and filtering it out. It isn't enough to worry about, but…" Dr. Hendry explained as he studied the results with baffled eyes.

"Man, this guy's liver must be phenomenal. I bet he can't get drunk to save his life." Dr. MacKenzie said with a whistle.

Dr. Cornelius's face brightened. "That could explain the nanos lodged in his heart as well! What is the white blood cell count in his heart?" he demanded of Dr. Hendry.

"It is abnormally high…almost as if-"

"As if he's battling an infection. His immune system was able to kill a small percentage of my nanochips and they are now being filtered out of the body like waste matter. There won't be any further problems with the nanos Professor. There's no way Subject X's heart can increase further, or he'd have to be some sort of super human," he added with a chuckle.

The Professor looked stricken at the words, and before Dr. Cornelius could ask what was wrong he stood and left.

"We are nearing the equalization point, we'll need to compensate on every channel," the technician's voice cut through the stunned silence that the Professor's departure left in its wake. For a second, no one spoke.

Then Dr. Cornelius took the reins. "Re-feed on all channels."

"Feed."The word was hesitant, but they all knew that hauling the procedure at this point was impossible.

"How do you like that, we're in the middle of a crisis and he walks out." Dr. Cornelius muttered under his breath once the feeds were stabilized.

Suddenly, the flow of adamantium increased threefold and Dr. Hines began searching for what could a leak. "All of the channels are secure but it appears that there is an excess of adamantium flow in the  _flexor brevis minima digiti_ section."

"And that would be?" Dr. Cornelius asked.

"His hands and wrists." She simplified.

A glance at Dr. Hendry showed that he was at an equal loss as to what might be causing the drainage. "We're going to need some advise on this…where is the Professor?" No one answered. "Well, have him paged then."

"Cornelius, what do you want?" The booming voice of the Professor sounded over the loud speaker, revealing that the lab was bugged.

"Sir, there is leakage in the region of the  _flexio-_  the hands and wrists sir. We can't account for it, nor are we able to halt it" silence met his words. "D-did you hear me sir?" Dr. Cornelius asked.

"Of course I heard you. This is all part of my program, do you doubt me?"

"No, Sir! I wouldn't-"

"Continue with the procedure, and wrap things up when the bonding is complete."

"You won't be returning to the lab then?" Dr. Cornelius asked, and again silence was the only answer.

Dr. Hines glanced up at Cornelius. "And the leak sir?"

"We will proceed as planned. The leak doesn't appear to be having an adverse effect on the subject. We'll review the results in post-op and try to figure out what happened then." Dr. Cornelius decided.

* * *

_Fools, the lot of them_ the Professor thought darkly after he released his hold on the button to the intercom _._

"Do you have everything in hand?" The voice on the headset demanded, moments before the Professor had taken a risk and called the Director.

"Yes, everything is under control."  _No thanks to you._

"And Subject X will survive the bonding process?"

"Of course he'll survive it." The Professor said with exasperation. "After all, the boy wasn't the only mutant you sent me, now is he?" he stated with increased agitation. "Why was I not informed of this? Logan is a mutant with the power to regenerate damaged tissue on an unprecedented level. He's practically immortal, and you didn't think I should be made aware of this factor?"

"Logan's status as a mutant was classified Professor, on a need-to-know basis, and simply put, you didn't need to know."

"You don't understand. I'm suppose to control these people, how am I to do that if I don't have all the information? I had to leave the operating room in case they asked any questions I couldn't answer! I felt like such a fool." The note of a little boy whine entered the Professor's tone and he hated himself for making the confession.

A rumbling chuckle was heard over the line "you sound angry Professor."

"I'll admit I'm not happy with this situation. Do you not trust me?" The Professor regretted the question the moment it left his lips.  _Of course he doesn't trust me, if he did he would have given me the information I needed._  He disregarded any platitudes the Director attempted to offer. "I have one final question, is there anything else about Subject X I haven't been informed of?"

Silence, the Director had ended the call.

* * *

Dr. Cornelius sat back in his chair and groaned. The testing on Weapon X was well under way, and he was performing at an amazing level.  _Good lord, those Claws!_  Once the bonding process had been completed, the subject was placed in an observation cell where he should have spent the next several hours unconscious. Instead, he'd woken up, and those stunning new appendages had made their first and most startling appearance.  _Well, at least we figured out where the overflow of adamantium was going_. That, and his killer instinct was written in the blood of the idiot technician who'd been scheduled to observe the subject overnight. The foolish man decided to enter the cell when it appeared the subject was in need of medical attention, and hadn't survived the encounter.

He shuttered. At the time he'd rushed into the observation room with two of the guards to find out what the hell was going on, and if it hadn't been for one the guards throwing himself on the subject's back, he was sure he would have died. Weapon X, naked and still bristling with hundreds of probes had cut through the three inches of Plexiglas like a kitten through a wet paper sack, and the terrible blood soaked sight had left Cornelius frozen in shock. Thank goodness the man had acted quickly to distract the renegade science project while a second guard shot him full of tranquilizers.

It wasn't the only close call they'd experienced in the last three weeks. Indeed, the project had almost finished off the Professor at one point. But, aside from a few mishaps, things were going surprisingly well. Against the animals, Weapon X was unstoppable. It could track and dispatch a grizzly in less than half an hour.

It wasn't the weapon aspect of X that captured Dr. Cornelius imagination, however. No, it was the unique white blood cell responsible for his unprecedented healing ability that made the Doctor's heart race. The conditioning of Weapon X fell to Dr. Hines and the Professor, which left Dr. Cornelius with hours of leisure to study X's amazing immune system.  _If I'd had access to this data two years ago maybe things would have been different. I'm sure I could have saved him._  The thought was bitter-sweet, and every moment he spent trying to unlock the secret of Logan's biology was a silent promise that no other child would suffer as his son had suffered, and that no other mother would be forced to make such a horrible decision. His beautiful Madeline had reached her breaking point, and gave their little boy the rest he deserved, and followed him on his journey. When the authorities blamed him for the murders, Cornelius didn't correct them. His wife had been a devout Catholic, and he couldn't stand the thought of what people would say about her if they knew the truth.

He rubbed his eyes tiredly as he scrawled more notes on the yellow ledger pad. The last word ended in a jagged streak as the room suddenly went dark. Seven breathless seconds passed in echoing silence, the endless technological hum had ground to a shocking halt and it felt like his heart had stopped with it. Then, the backup generators kicked on and alarms blared, under the sound a fierce shout was heard somewhere deeper in the complex, and Cornelius's mouth went dry.

* * *

In a dark, empty lab emerald eyes snapped open as magic roared though the frail body. Six weeks, each the equivalent of two years had passed, and though late due to the extreme acceleration of his growth and his deeply malnourished state, his magical inheritance was finally upon him.

The thrum in his blood grew to a fever pitch until it finally crested in an explosion of sheer power. Glass, that would normally have been able to withstand bullets, shattered outward in a wave of green fluid when the full strength of his magic rolled out of the adolescent, and tore through the base, leaving darkness in its wake.

The skeletal form crashed to the ground. Probes and wires were torn from his starved flesh, and bones fractured as he landed on the cold cement. Crimson mingled with green when shards of glass tore into delicate skin and the form thrashed weakly, unable to comprehend the agonizing stimuli now flooding his system.


	3. Building from the Ground Up

"The distance between insanity and genius is measured only by success." – Bruce Feirstein

* * *

Darkness rolled through the massive complex on the tide of magic, and with the darkness came mad fury of an untamed beast.

"Shit!"  _Shink,_  the terrifying sound; one every guard with the level of clearance necessary to work with Weapon X knew by heart, was a thousand times more so in the dark. Anderson and Lynch were returning the Project to the lab after another successful round of testing when the lights went out without warning. "Fu-AHHH" Anderson turned to run; blind instinct overrode common sense, and the need to escape death dominated his mind. Adamantium claws hissed though the air with an animalistic roar of triumph, Weapon X pounced on the retreating form. His claws tore through Kevlar, flesh, and bone with ease, painting the nude killer crimson in blood that fell like rain.

The metallic tang of blood mingled with the bitter outhouse stench of perforated bowls made Lynch want to puke, but giving in to his body's weakness now would mean certain death. "Damn it," he cursed when his side arm caught in the holster. In his panic, he'd forgotten to unbutton the strap. A flash of brilliant vermilion stained claws proved that was one mistake too many, and his head toppled from the shoulders of his still standing corpse. Another guttural roar echoed through the complex. The predator began stalking fresh prey, unmindful of the broken bodies left strewn in his wake. Emergency generators kicked on, adding spots of light accented by long stretches of deadly shadows.

* * *

Penny loafers skidded on the cement floor, nearly sending the doctor careening down the stairs on his face.  _Hurry, hurry, hurry,_ Dr. Hendry's heart pounded with adrenaline while alarms blared a myriad of different warnings. Only one concerned him, the one that monitored the status of Subject IX had gone off precisely thirty seconds ago. The distant sound of a roar indicated that IX wasn't the only project to have gone haywire this night. His footsteps faltered for only a second before he returned to full flight, his analytical mind counting down the seconds he had before the Subject became unviable.

Finally, thirty-seven seconds later, Dr. Hendry crashed through the door of the lab illuminated by an ample amount of emergency lighting. He fell hard as one of his loafers skidded on the edge of the large puddle of fluid that had once supported his Subject. Cursing under his breath, Dr Hendry scrambled to his feet and wasted no time trying to figure out how the capsulea had become compromised in the first place.

He moved with the practiced grace of a man who'd served his time in the emergency room. Skilled fingers deftly began unhooking the failing life support systems and detangling the violently trembling body from the mess of wires and broken glass. Dr. Hendry gathered the small bony form up off the cement floor when it jerked once in his arms and fell still, the narrow rib ridged chest lay motionless under the doctor's gentle hold.

"Hold on, kid," he commanded. Five long steps brought him to the lab table where he deposited his now frightfully still burden.

* * *

_It was bound to happen sometime,_  Cutler thought as he flung open the door to the armory. The room was already packed with the other thirty-three guards who were too busy gaping at the security feed instead of armoring up.  _Friggin' amateurs._

"Who's down?" Cut demanded while gearing up.

"Anderson and Lynch were taken down in Lab Two, looks like Weapon X nailed a tech and is headed out of the lab." Erdman said, his face was sickly pale and lined with worry. He wasn't a young man anymore and he knew that going up against something like X was suicide.

"Well, what are you guys waiting for, a written invitation? Gear up, I'll break out the live ammo." Cutler barked, they had a job to do, a damn shitty job, but one that needed to be done and one that only they could do.  _Damn straight, just like those eggheads to create a monster then lose control of the bloody thing. No doubt they're hiding in a supply closet and pissing their fancy pants right now._

Instead of gearing up the men hesitated. "Deavers is waiting for authorization on live ammo from the Professor." Erdman admitted when Cutler leveled a glare at the group.

"To hell with that, I'm authorizing live ammo." Cutler sneered. Of course the Major would worry more about covering his own ass than doing his damn job. The rest of the men crowded around, strapping Kevlar over their bodies while Cutler handed out the big guns: Heckler & Koch UMP .45 caliber submachine guns with 25 round clips.

* * *

"CLEAR" Dr. Hendry yelled more out of habit than necessity, since he was the only one working on the patient. Large paddles, which only emphasized how small the chest they rested on, jolted the body for a third time. "Come on, come on, come on…breathe for me." Another jolt, green flashed as eyelids fluttered before the ominous long beep indicated the heart had not started beating yet kicked on again. "Damn it!"

* * *

Bodies littered the floor. Bullets sawed through the room, and still the beast barely flinched, it shook off the shots like a dog would water. Claws cut clean through the gun arm of one of the closest guards before they continued though the lower half of the body, and spilled the stunned man's intestines onto the floor.

"Fall back to corridor B" Cutler shouted to the seventeen remaining guards. It was obvious they were all going to die if they didn't come up with a dramatically different game plan. More screams echoed through the metal corridors while X finished killing off the few poor bastards who hadn't died during the initial attack. As sick as it was, Cutler was glad there were a few suckers left alive for the brute to play with. It gave the rest of them breathing room to plan their next move.

"Right, I'm not going to lie to you, we're in a hell of a spot here and our bullets might as well be spitballs for all they're slowing it down. Here's the deal, most if not all of us, are going to die today, but if we play our cards right, maybe some of us will get out of this alive. We know those mad scientists took an already unkilliable bastard and made him indestructible. What they didn't do was give it super strength. Here's what we're gunna do, we've got some nice tight quarters here, that'll work in our favor. When X comes this way, we have to jump him, and get a hold of those god damned arms. We'll pin his ass with sheer weight and tie the fucker down. That's the only thing that'll work here." Cutler spoke plainly, laying all the cards down on the table at once. The plan was suicidal, that was a fact, and from the wary looks he was getting, the others knew it too. But, just shooting at the problem and hoping it would go away was even worse, and the others knew that as well.

The screaming in the other room came to an abrupt, gurgling end. "Alright men, time to earn our hazard pay."

* * *

A gasping breath, and another as the young man on the table attempted to breath, though his body was far too weak to accomplish the task on its own. "Yes!" Dr. Hendry crowed and skillfully fed a breathing tube down the slender throat, once more hooking the subject up to life support.  _Beep, beep, beep, beep_  the soft mechanical sound of success drowned out the louder blaring of alarms.

Jade colored eyes stared blankly up at the ceiling. They dilated properly when he flashed his light into them, but the vacant stare was still rather unnerving. Now that his patient was stabilized, the doctor dealt with the numerous superficial wounds that decorated the emaciated body. "I'll need to get x-rays to see how much damage the fall did." Dr. Hendry mused while carefully suturing a three inch gash on the Subject's left hip.

* * *

When X rounded the corner, the remainder of the guard force charged. Each man shouting their lungs out in a desperate attempt to confuse the beast. It appeared to work, at least for a moment. Weapon X tilted its head to stare at the oncoming horde, those terrible blood-thirsty eyes were fearless in the face of their assault.

Then the wave of bodies crashed over him. Thickly muscled arms slashed forward, gutting the first man to reach him in an instant. The second and third both fell beneath the deadly blades; their blood adding to the slick floor. With a deft twist Cutler was able to twist away from another swing, get behind him, and throw his arm around the monster's throat.

_This wasn't the most brilliant idea I've ever had,_  Cutler thought, ducking what would have been a decapitating slice from those lethal claws. X shook like a dog trying to dislodge the man, but Cutler held on with grim determination while more men joined the mêlée.

With a wild yell that was more bravado and mad terror than bravery, Chase threw himself at Weapon X's left arm just as the beast was attempting to twist it behind him and claw the man on his back to pieces. "FUCK!" Cutler shouted when those damnably sharp blades scored his side, slicing through the last two ribs on that side. Cutler would be the first to admit that free floating bone in one's chest was quite possibly the strangest feeling he'd ever experienced. It was different from a broken bone, none of the sharp piercing edges. There really was no way to explain it, but fuck did it hurt.

"I got him, I got him!"Chase shrieked, his voice going high, revealing just how young he was. Fresh meat, just a damn kid probably no more than eighteen. The joy on Chase's face turned to horror when the arm he clung to turned at just the wrong angle. Those terrible claws vanished into his chest. A startled gasp was torn from the boy's lips and another wave of agony made his knees weak when the breath shredded the lung now speared through by the deadly claws. Another violent jerk, and his chest exploded as the claws exited though his left side. Chase blinked once; his shaky hand came up to his ruined chest. Shaking fingers brushed against the exposed, clean cut bones before his legs gave out and he collapsed. Dead before he even hit the ground.

"HE WAS JUST A KID YOU ASSHOLE…JUST A KID, JUST A KID, JUST A KID!" Conrad lost it after watching the young man fall. Back when the whole thing started, he'd taken Chase under his wing and showed him the ropes. The sight of his young protégé dead was the last straw. The machine gun was wielded like a club and Conrad didn't felt the claws that tore into his guts while he attempted to bash the mutant's brains in, adamantium or no.

Conrad's madness was the single stroke of luck the guards needed, and while the beast was distracted by disemboweling the shouting man, Erdman and Hill were able to get a solid grip on its arms. They, with Cutler still on its back, managed to ride the beast to the ground. The eight remaining guards who'd survived the initial attack piled onto Weapon X until he couldn't be seen under the living chains that bound him.

* * *

The Professor sagged in his ergonomic chair with relief when the small mountain of men didn't erupt into a fountain of gore, signifying that the weapon hadn't broken free of their hold. He would never admit the terror he'd felt watching X breach three zones of the complex. Tempered steel was no match for those savage claws, and every guard that fell was one less man standing between him and the monster.

Slate grey eyes flicked to another monitor, this one showing a certain worthless Major who would soon find himself unemployed, and if the Professor had any say about it, unemployable. _Incompetent ass, completely worthless in an emergency. If Cutler survives, he'll make a fine replacement._ The Professor wasn't a man who handed out praise lightly, nor was he one to acknowledged those he deemed so utterly beneath him, but he would give credit where credit was due.  _There's no doubt that without Cutler's quick thinking, we wouldn't have survived._ And that truth was what had the Professor's heart beating at three times the normal rate. Death had been breathing down the back of his neck, and it had been held off by a mad plan that shouldn't have worked, but somehow did.

With a hand that shook more than a little, the Professor pressed the intercom button. "Is the Subject secure?" His voice boomed though the corridor. The mound of bodies heaved as X thrashed at the noise, but it held.

"He is secure for the moment, hold time estimated fifteen minutes, twenty max." Cutler's pain rough voice called out as he held on for dear life.

"I'll send Hines now."

With a few quick taps, the Professor activated the intercom and camera in the woman's room. While some might think it was unethical, the Professor deemed it appropriate. He refused to have any area of the complex outside of his total control. Dr. Hines paced back and forth across the non-descript grey carpet, at a loss for what to do. "Dr. Hines, bring the cybernetic helmet to corridor B as fast as humanly possible," the Professor commanded.

"Me?!" Dr. Hines squeaked, terrified by the thought of coming face to face with the renegade weapon.

"Yes you woman! It's your technology isn't it? Now get down there this instant! Don't worry, Weapon X is perfectly secure. All you need to do is re-activate the RMI and get that helmet on him." _Well, not precisely the truth, but as long as she hustles it will be true enough._  Still, she just stood there wringing her hands. "Damn it! MOVE!" his voice boomed over the loud speaker, startling her so much she jumped and fled the room at a dead run.  _Much better._  He hated using such vulgar language, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

* * *

Each stitch was placed with perfect precision while Dr. Hendry dutifully ignored the alarms. Weapon X would be subdued or he wouldn't, and if he wasn't then they'd all be dead soon anyway. But, if he was, then the doctor would have a massive influx of patients.  _Then again, maybe not. X doesn't often leave its prey on the alive side._

He knew from observing the numerous tests Weapon X went through that running would be a worthless venture. No, if he abandoned his Subject now, the boy would die.  _And if we do survive this, letting IX die because I was afraid for my life would be the last job decision I ever made._  Even though this job was at times Hell on Earth, it was still cutting edge,  _Ha! Cutting edge indeed,_ Dr. Hendry thought with a bitter laugh as he pictured those adamantium claws beheading a grizzly.

A shudder caressed his insides, but his surgeon's hands remained steady even while he pictured himself in the bear's place. "We'll see soon enough," the doctor whispered to his catatonic patient. Another gash had been sutured with his accustomed precision, all the glass was removed, and the wounds were cleaned and sterilized.

Time had become a curious thing for the doctor. So much had been accomplished, yet he wasn't sure if any time had passed. Where was Weapon X now? Had it been killed?  _If such a thing was even possible, if that thing isn't immortal I doubt anything is_. Was it headed this way now? Were he and IX the only ones left alive? Pointless questions, but he couldn't stop them from invading his mind while he worked on his patient, and strained his ears for any sound besides the near deafening blare of the alarms.

* * *

Carol Hines never fancied herself a brave person, and she didn't think that it was bravery that motivated her now. The Professor's voice still rang in her ears, overlapped with the booming snarl of her father when he'd been at the bottle. It was a tone that had ingrained obedience into her from an early age. Obedience that sent her fleeing into the arms of certain death. The thought of disobeying an order given in that tone hadn't even crossed her mind.

The control helmet felt like it weighed far more than it actually did, and her breath came in desperate gasps as she ran. One corner, another…and a third. Her frantic pace came to a careening halt when she stumbled over a mutilated corpse. A scream echoed and bounced off the walls, and it took her a moment to realize the sound was coming from her.

* * *

The shriek caused a wave of desperate movement from the man pile. Weapon X snarled and fought harder to escape, driven wild by the sound. A masculine bellow of pain made an interesting counterpoint to the shrill noise when one of the guards shifted too close. Blunt human teeth tore with predatory abandon into the throat that had come too near. Flesh was shredded, and a fountain hot blood joined the now congealing mess that already covered him from head to toe. Dead weigh settled in the pile, and it wasn't the only corpse that helped hold the beast down. "Bloody Hell! Hey chit, get yer ass over here and turn it the fuck off," a half muffled voice shouted.

The accusing voice was enough to jerk Dr. Hines out of her terror induced stupor, and numbly she stumbled forward. Her mind could hardly process the carnage that littered the corridor. She choked back a whimper when she was forced to step over an arm that had lost its owner sometime during the battle.

"Hurry UP! We can't hold him forever," another voice, her frightened green eyes darted over the mound of guards, some of which were clearly dead. Hysteria threatened to overwhelm her as she wondered if the voice came from one of the corpses.

Her shoe slid in a pile of something she refused to identify, and Dr. Hines stumbled, landing hard on her right knee. Agony jolted up her leg like lightning, and the physical pain gave her mind something solid to grab hold of. The mindless terror was shoved back, and her normal analytical mind reasserted itself.  _Weapon X is secure, all I need is access to its head, and the crisis will be averted,_ she thought. Regaining her feet, she strode forward with her head held high. Her bottle green eyes crawling over the mass of bodies in an attempt to determine where the weapon's head was located.

"You and you," her foot tapped two of the bodies, and one of them moved in a disconcertingly dead sort of way,  _I'll have to move that one myself,_  she realized "Er, you need to shift over to the right." Dr. Hines directed the guard who was still breathing. With a low grunt, he managed to shift over just enough to partially expose Weapon X's head. "Right." Taking a deep steadying breath, Dr. Hines kneeled on the gore soaked floor, and did her very best to ignore the feeling of cold blood soaking the knees of her pants.

Before she could give in to the fear that nibbled rat-like at her resolve, Dr. Hines reached out and twisted her fingers into the dead guard's dark hair. It was difficult to pull the lulling head out of the way, but the difficulty was more psychological than physical.  _He's dead for God's sake, I'm not going to hurt him._ She held tightly to that thought and gave the lulling head a rough yank. It was hard not to gag at the gaping mouth shaped hole in the man's throat that was revealed when she'd moved the head.

A deep snarl flashed bloody teeth, and Carol's resolve nearly shattered when the beast lunged up, and nearly broke free from the exhausted guards. HIs teeth snapped a hair's length from her nose before she grabbed the last of her courage by its fleeing coattails and jammed the helmet onto Weapon X's raised head. She shook so badly that she almost couldn't flip the switch. Finally the soft hum of energy thrummed, and the mind numbing waves of the machine took effect. Instantly muscles that had been straining with terrible force against the combined effort of the guards went slack, and a collective groan of relief echoed though the corridor as men began to release their desperate hold.

Cutler hissed when the full, dead weight of Weapon X settled on him. The pile of men on top of X started to detangle, and with each weight removed Cutler was able to breathe a little easier. _Lucky I didn't suffocate, wouldn't that have been a bitch? Killed by being the bottom of the god-damn dog pile,_  he thought with wary amusement. His vision began to fade, devoured by an increasing number of black dots. A soft chuckle bubbled on his lips; spiked with the bitter tang of blood.

* * *

Every step sent pain jolting up his legs, and Dr. Hendry was considering the merits of laying down on the floor instead of competing the endless journey to his room. Step after exhausted, plodding step ate the distance between him and his destination. Sleep sounded like a small piece of heaven after the past nine and a half hours of intense surgery.  _Good lord, I don't remember ever being this tired._ Out of the seven men who'd made it to his table alive, only four left still breathing. And two of those were touch and go. If they made it through the night, they'd have a fighting chance. Hill was paralyzed, and the ex-military man would probably have preferred death.

"Not my call," he grunted, struggling to operate the door. His fatigue riddled mind, crashing from the lack of adrenalin, was nearly beaten by the complex workings of a door knob. Finally, the tricky mechanism yielded to the power of opposable thumbs, and the doctor stumbled to his bed.  _I really should take a showe-_

* * *

_-Three Days Later-_

A headache beat behind the Professor's eyes, thudding in time with his heart by the time ended the call. He didn't know what was worse, the condescending tone of the Director when the man questioned everything from his hiring practices, to the exact nature of the emergency procedures at the Hive, or the sickening praise he'd received for creating such an effective weapon.

Anger still lingered like an after image on the back of his eyelids. The man's accusation of him lying infuriated the Professor when he'd informed the Director of how X was brought back under control. Yes, it was completely and utterly ridiculous, but that wasn't something to lie about. The Professor had to let the Director uplink to the system and view the security footage for himself before he would believe it.

"Well, I doubt anyone else would come up with such an unorthodox counter attack," the Director mused after watching the video for a third time. Weapon X was an impressive feat of random nature enhanced by precise engineering. Another groan escaped the Professor when he attempted to put all thoughts of the meddlesome man out of his mind. Two hours, two hours wasted in the verbal conference that spanned all aspects of the Weapon X project, as well as a detailed report on subject IX, who had started the whole fiasco.

A brisk tap on the door interrupted his troubled thoughts. The Professor straightened, his gaze darting to the clock. Time had gotten away from him, and some long overdue business needed to be resolved. "Enter." The word was cold, and didn't bode well for whoever was on the other side of the door.

Major Deavers stepped smartly into the room, his uniform pressed and his stance spoke of long years in the military. "Sir, you wished to see me?" He asked, his voice held no hint of the worry he felt.

"Yes, come in and shut the door behind you."

The door swished shut behind him after Deavers stepped into the room. He stood at attention in front of the Professor's massive oak desk, and silently cursed the entire Weapon X program. Heads were going to roll, and it didn't take a genius to know whose neck was in the noose on this one.

"I'm not going to dance around the issue Deavers, your performance under pressure left much to be desired. If it wasn't for the actions of one of your subordinates, this facility would have been lost. I don't have to spell it out for you do I?" Stone flat eyes pinned the man where he stood, and Deavers couldn't help the small shiver of fear that marched down his spine. Those were the eyes of a true scientist, and Deavers didn't feel quite as badly about being let go.  _The Professor would meticulously cut a man to pieces just to see how he worked, and never flinch as his blade pealed back the fine layers of still living flesh._

"I understand, sir."

"Good, your clearance will be revoked at 0600 tomorrow. If you're still here after that time you will be arrested for trespassing."

"Yes sir, good day." Deavers said before turning on his heel and stalked out of the room.  _Stuck up prig, it isn't like he did anything of note during the disaster._ His thoughts darkened while he walked. Thirty years, he'd given thirty years of his life to the military. His career didn't have a single blemish on it, and that sniveling brain thought he had the right to judge him?  _This is all that upstart Cutler's fault, that bastard always thought he was too good to fall in line._

Without deciding to do so, Deavers feet took him not towards his room, but instead straight ahead to the medical wing. His aged, but still strong hands clenched into fists as his common sense was blinded by fury.  _Stupid brat, he wouldn't be anything without me. That pompous ass will give the puppy my position._  The poisonous thoughts fed on each other, growing to mind consuming proportions.

By the time he'd opened the door to the medical wing, Deavers mind was set.

"Hey what are you—" a fist to the side of the head silenced the male nurse's question without the Major having to break stride. The young man crumpled to the floor at the deranged Major's feet. A sneer curled Deavers lip, and he kicked the stunned man's body out of the way. Bright vengeful eyes landed on the three beds that held occupants, a vicious grin curled his lips when he saw Cutler in the center bed.

The younger man was ghostly pale from the amount of blood he'd lost from X's last attack, but overall he would make a full recovery sans a few bits of rib bone that had been removed. Deavers stalked forward, his heart beat thickly in his chest. The almost forgotten surge adrenalin associated with having a man in his sights on the battle field flooded his veins. It had been a long time since he'd killed a man, but Deavers could still remember the near Godly moment of deliberately taking a life.

Cutler's pale blue eyes snapped open when his air supply was abruptly cut off. The angry red face of the Major loomed over him, and Cut's oxygen starved brain urged his still weak body to react, but it was too late, the Major's grip was precise and darkness blurred Cutler's vision. His arms felt like they weighed a ton, and he had barely lifted them before everything went black.

A husky, not all together sane laugh rang through the room. "Not so tough now are you Cut?" He mocked while the younger man tried, and failed, to break his hold. "So you thought you were so much better than me didn't y-" he gasped. The mad rant was abruptly cut off by a sharp point of agony in his lower back. Twisting around, Deavers stumbled over the man half crumpled on the floor.

"I…always thought…you were an...ass," Hill gasped when Deavers fell over him. The ex-marine's legs were twisted in a way that would have been excruciating if he had any feeling below the waist. When he'd woken up to the Major's deranged laughter and saw the bastard attempting to kill the man who'd saved all their asses, Hill grabbed the pen by his bed side and flung himself rather foolishly off the bed. He could feel stitches and staples tear under the sudden exertion, but that didn't matter now. Deavers sat up, and his fist crashed with brutal effectiveness into Hill's nose, sending shards of bone deep into the man's brain. Deavers hesitated at the small satisfied smirk that lingered on the dead man's lips before dismissing it.

With a grunt, the Major staggered to his feet. "Now, where were we?" He asked as he reached around and jerked the pen out of his back. Hot liquid soaked his hand in an instant, and he swayed. "Shit." The cork the pen had made in his ruptured abdominal aorta was released, and now his life's blood gushed from the wound. One wobbly step, two, and then he tripped over the dead man's bent leg and fell. Hill's last gift to Cutler was simply being in the right place at the right time. The Major bled out before he could continue his assault.

* * *

Agent Franks was dazed and confused. Last Monday, he had been the bottom man, the newest recruit and now, somehow, he was the second banana. Not only that, but right now, he was the First Banana since Cut was still out of commission. He couldn't believe it, out of fifty men only two survived, and he, newbie extraordinaire, had got off with only a few burses, and a dislocated shoulder.

Shaking his head, he continued scrubbing the floor. "Stupid green slime," he sighed while the scrub brush hissed over the cement and its thick layer of nearly as hard, dry slime. The one plus to being first banana was the ability to pick the job he wanted. With so many guards dead, there hadn't been anyone left to clean up the mess. So, three days later, the new recruits finally arrived. It had been difficult, even for the Director, to replace so many men on such short notice, and cleaning up the dead fell to their bottom of the totem pole asses. But, even he had to help out, and he chose cleaning up the Lab. At the time he'd believed the green fluid would come up easily, and at least it wasn't the semi-rotten corpses of people he'd known. He'd been wrong, the damn stuff was stuck fast, and if he was lucky, he might be done by the time he was eighty-five. Still, it was better than dealing with the dead.

Another bonus of Franks new status was the fact that, as the only able body guard left, he finally received the highest clearance a guard could. Warm brown eyes strayed to the large bio-chamber that now housed Weapon IX. It was roughly seven times larger than the capsulea that had broken, and the twitching, squirming body in the green fluid made his stomach quiver.

Yesterday, the doctors and scientists spent several hours working on the small, emaciated form. As the only guard, he was present just in case.  _In case what, I have no idea. That little kid probably can't even stand up, let alone attack someone,_  he thought, trying to forget the sight of the men systematically inserting thousands of wires into the boy's emaciated form. Most of the words the scientists used were far beyond the young guard's comprehension, but he was able to glean a bit of what was going on. Apparently the boy didn't have any memory of ever existing, like clones. Though he wasn't sure what happened or why they were comparing him to clones,  _and didn't they stop cloning after the sheep died?_  He wondered. Basically, the boy didn't know squat, including rather important stuff like how to walk or talk. So, the wires were hooked into all his muscles and through muscle memory, and the use of a computer program he was being taught at a crazy rate by electricity stimulating his muscles.

Again, he shook his head. It was far beyond his understanding, and in the end it was probably best to leave the science experiments to the scientists.  _Except when they get out of hand, and we need to put them back in their place._  He smirked a bit, and his chest puffed out at the thought. The Hive was perfectly secure with him and Cutler in charge.

* * *

He was hiding again.  _Not hiding, I'm doing research,_  Dr. Cornelius scolded himself, but it rang false even in his own mind. They all knew, he was sure, and they were laughing behind his back. That was the reason he was sequestered in his personal lab, and had barely ventured out in the past three days. He'd helped with the procedures done on IX but every glance in his direction felt hot with scorn, and he knew that they knew.

Cornelius distracted himself from his paranoid thoughts by reviewing the brain scans again. "Astonishing," he murmured while he reviewed the scan from just prior to the event, then the one during the event, and the one after. When they'd first wired IX up, he hadn't understood why the Professor insisted on continual brain scans, now he knew there was far more to IX than he'd been led to believe.  _And I will prefect him._

The scans showed a massive increase of activity in the brain stem, the eldest part of the brain and prior to now, believed to be involved exclusively with involuntary functions such as breathing and heart rate. The boy's power, a mutation, he'd been informed, was centered in the brain stem making it a function that was outside of his conscious control. That wouldn't do, so Cornelius was tasked with finding a way to rewire the subject's brain so that he could control the power consciously. It was tricky, very tricky, but a good friend may have already given him the key.

Three years ago, his best friend Sam lost his sight in a lab explosion. One of the risks of accepting interns was dealing with the stupid mistakes young people made when they learned. Unfortunately, this particular mistake killed the intern, and left his friend both scarred and blind. He hadn't been able to do anything about the scarring. That wasn't his area of expertise, but he had managed to create a form of nano-technology that was of great use to his friend. Cornelius, after nearly six months of theory and testing, found a way to bridge the gap between the visual cortex and the audio. He'd re-wired his friend's brain so that his hearing could use the large, now useless visual cortex, which resulted in a low grade version of echo location.

The theory of linking two similar areas was one he'd conquered, but linking two vastly different parts of the brain was the trick. He had three weeks to figure it out, according to Dr. Hendry. By then the subject, who was now being fed a complex mixture of nutrients to correct the damage caused by malnutrition now that the growth plates had fused, would be healthy as a horse.  _The first stage of programming will be completed as well._  Even someone as educated as himself couldn't help but be amazed by the advancements made in the name of research at this facility. Just as infants would be impractical for the cloning program resulted in the development of the accelerated growth process, adults with the minds of infants would be equally worthless. To overcome the difficulty, a program was developed that uploaded information directly into the subject's brain, language, fighting styles, tactics, weapons functionality, and most importantly, obedience.

Now that stage one was complete, he had all of stage two to develop the next procedure that would be used on the subject.  _I'll achieve what they never could, and then they'll all forget about how I hid under the bed when X went on his rampage._


	4. Becoming

"Nothing is, everything is becoming." – Heraclitus of Ephesus

In one unbearable instant, the emptiness was flooded with light and a whirlwind of sound as knowledge began filling the empty vessel. His body was held in perfect stillness due to the sedatives that flooded his system when the monitors detected a spike in heart rate caused by the influx of information. Language was forcefully uploaded into his memory, words, phrases, all the nuances and subtleties of an entire language poured into his blank mind. For every new word, an image, meaning built upon meaning until all he wanted to do was clutch his head and scream. Still, his body refused to follow the frantic commands, and remained motionless in its house of glass, floating in the life giving liquid that gently supported him.

Years passed, or maybe it was only seconds. After time beyond measure, the flood of data became a river, the river, a stream, and finally it dwindled down to a mere trickle. The influx of information dried up, leaving desperate pain in its wake while his mind was forced to absorb the massive amount of knowledge.

Before the pain had a chance to fade, a commanding voice crashed into his raw mind. "4285-8284910583-210982905729-8492, You Exist to Serve, 4285-8284910583-210982905729-8492, You Will OBEY Your Wielder in All Things, 4285-8284910583-210982905729-8492, Your Life Belongs to Your Wielder, 4285-8284910583-210982905729-8492, Your Death Belongs to Your Wielder, 4285-8284910583-210982905729-8492, You Exist to Serve, 4285-8284910583-210982905729-8492, You Will Protect Your Wielder, 4285-8284910583-210982905729-8492, You Will Only Have One Wielder at Any One Time, 4285-8284910583-210982905729-8492, You Will OBEY Your Wielder in All Things, 4285-8284910583-210982905729-8492, Obedience is Life, You Exist to Serve, Obey, OBEY, OBEY, OBEY.

4285-8284910583-210982905729-8492

With each repetition, a foundation of existence was built into the weapon.

4285-8284910583-210982905729-8492

With each repetition, the foundation grew and was strengthened.

4285-8284910583-210982905729-8492

With each repetition, suggestion became truth.

4285-8284910583-210982905729-8492

With each repetition, truth became…everything.

4285-8284910583-210982905729-8492

I exist to serve, to obey my wielder in all things, my life, my death, all belong to my wielder…I exist to obey…this is my purpose.

Days passed, and the body in the holding chamber grew stronger. Bone was covered in a healthy layer of flesh while limbs twitched with electrical commands not his own. Probes, several thousand of them, had been studded into IX's flesh, each linked to the numerous muscular systems in the body. Starvation weakened muscles, now fed on a concentrated form of pure nutrient solution were given no rest as waves of electricity shot through them at regular intervals.

Humans have no memory of learning how to walk, to talk, to use a spoon or put on a shirt. Weapon IX would have no memory of learning these things either. The knowledge was passed directly into his flesh as each command was repeated, building up the weapons muscle memory so that when the time came, he would be fully functional.

The Professor sat back in his chair, and smiled a razor thin smile. Everything was going according to plan, in spite of the slight mishap they'd experienced a few weeks ago. Mishap, well I suppose that's one way to put nearly being wiped out by a renegade weapon. The Professor thought sourly. He reviewed the data readouts on weapon IX. The obedience program had been uploaded successfully, as had the language program. That was a brilliant piece of programming of the Professor's own design, and he was still bitter about the fact that it only worked on someone who'd been turned into a vegetable. Imagine how valuable such a program would be if it worked on a normal person. To learn an entire language in a matter of minutes, it was truly some of his best work. Too bad it would never see the light of day. The circumstances required to make the program function properly weren't something the general population would be accepting of. No, there was much the sheep didn't need to know, and the Weapons Plus program was one of those little government secrets that fell under that designation.

Once all the basic programming had been successfully installed, the Professor enacted the first of many training modules that would be fed directly into the subject's brain so that they wouldn't have to wait years for IX to learn at a normal level. Long spider like fingers tapped a command into the computer: Enact training module one: hand to hand combat, Enter.

A featureless plane expanded in all directions around him, while he stood waiting for a command. "Learn what they have to teach you, fight, kill…or be killed." The disembodied voice echoed through the field. Jade green eyes scanned the empty landscape, waiting with the patience of the damned for the training to begin. Shadows, darker than the ones that overlaid the empty space, shifted and materialized into manlike shapes. They were far larger than him, his head barely reached their shoulders, and his slender form couldn't compare to their shadowy bulk. Fear didn't touch IX's jewel colored eyes as he watched the shapes form, it was an emotion that had no place in the new creation's being.

Two of the shadow men squared off against each other and performed a simple sequence of attack and defend, dark fists and feet lashed out in an intricate dance of violence that was performed exactly three times for his observation. Then, as one, the shadow men turned and attacked the untrained youth. Their dark flesh quickly proved to be as solid as his, and he crashed to the ground with blood pouring from a badly broken nose. Still, the men did not relent in their attack. He wasn't able to regain his feet before a heel slammed brutally into the thin bone at his right temple.

Another agonizing crunch resounded though his battered skull, bone yielded under the crushing blow, and the darkness gave way to blazing white. Distantly, he felt his body fall to the ground. With a wrenching tear he lost connection to his flesh. Everything went dark, and death overtook him.

SNAP, with a feeling similar to a dislocated joint being jerked back into place, his death was undone and again he stood alone on the featureless plain, now decorated with patches of damp blood. "Learn what they have to teach you, fight, kill…or be killed." The emotionless command sounded again. This time the shadow men did not give a demonstration before they attacked. One arm came up in a faltering attempt to fend off the first blow, and bone cracked under the force. IX hissed as pain flashed though his arm. He attempted to dodge the second shadow's kick to his ribs. The dodge put him directly in the path of a savage upper cut that snapped his head back exposing his vulnerable throat to a vicious punch that crushed the delicate bones.

Again he fell, this time unable to breath around the shattered bones of his ruined throat. Death came slower this time, nearly two agonizing minutes of choking on his own blood while his oxygen starved brain struggled to function and failed.

SNAP - "Learn what they have to teach you, fight, kill…or be killed."

IX dodged the fists, learning how to duck and weave, using his smaller form to evade hits instead of attempting to block them. Empty jade eyes watched how the shadow men moved, studying what he could to use against his attackers when the opportunity rose to do so. His smaller fist managed to skim over the ribs of one of the shadow men before a kick from behind shattered his spine and sent him falling into death for the third time.

SNAP, with each repetition IX learned out of necessity to extend his life for a few more minutes each cycle. His body grew stronger and was able to tolerate more damage before failing. Each new repetition built his knowledge and after the eleventh, his focus shifted.

Darting forward, he twisted serpent like under a kick that would have broken his neck four cycles back and turned, bringing his sharp elbow back with devastating force into the shadow man's solar plexus. With a whoosh of air being expelled from his lungs the shadow man fell. Before the second shadow could retaliate, he competed the turn and lashed out with his foot. Crack, bone gave way, and the dark shape went limp. His first taste of success, to kill, instead of be killed. Before he could savor the victory a thickly muscled arm snaked around his throat and with an indifferent twist, his body joined the shadow on the ground.

SNAP. The attacks became faster, and IX realized that in the beginning they had gone easy on him. More shadow men joined the never ending conflict, each with a distinct style. No words were spoken, and after the first demonstration no others were given. He was taught through pain, through experimentation, and though he didn't know the names, he learned a unique form of martial arts that was a brutal hybrid of all styles. The module had been designed so that the weapon would be unpredictable. It taught numerous styles all at once so IX was forced to evolve and develop a style that had not existed prior.

SNAP, SNAP, SNAP, SNAP…

Hundreds of deaths, thousands of methods tried and discarded while IX refined his technique. Eventually, the blood that painted the ground a deep rust, refreshed with bold splashes of crimson, was replenished more by the shadow men than IX. Corpses piled up, only vanishing when he met another end, but the blood always remained. Each new match began on a field of dry blood, the bitter tang of copper scented every breath until the entire world tasted of death.

SNAP. The field had been replaced by a shadow wreathed forest. Silver glinted, revealing the sharp sheen of blades great and small. Edged weapons littered the forest, and the second phase of his training began. One of the shadow men rose up out of the ground, a black sword griped in his right hand.

The sword moved like an extension of the shadow man's arm as he lashed out. IX ducked and rolled, snatching up a sword as he came to his feet. The weapon felt wrong in his grip, too long and unwieldy. He wasn't able to bring it up in time to keep from being impaled on the shadow man's blade. This death wasn't a crushing one, not a breaking one. It was sharp, and swift as life blood was set free to water the black trees.

SNAP, swords were too long, too bulky to fit the fighting style IX had become accustomed to. Instead, he sought out shorter blades, daggers. Unlike his prior training, where numerous attackers swamped him, here his opponents were scattered throughout the forest and had to be hunted down individually.

IX held his breath, turning his head one way, then another. He listened for the whisper soft tread of his enemy's steps on the forest floor. Silence. No, behind him. A strange scuffing sound where no sound had been before. Turning, IX barely managed to catch the descending blade and turn it aside with his right dagger. The left lashed forward, tearing effortlessly through the tender flesh of the Shadow man's stomach. A second slash opened the dark throat in a bloody torrent. Emerald eyes darted to the side just as a second Shadow man stepped out of the darkness cast by one of the massive trees. As the blade descended in an arch he couldn't escape, IX acknowledged the new threat of the Shadow men's ability to use the shadows to travel unseen.

SNAP, IX learned to emulate the near soundless tread of his opponents when he was hunted, and in turn did the hunting. Hiss, the soft sound was all the warning he had before the tiny blade sank deep into his throat. Nimble fingered managed to jerk the three inch long blade free and study it in the seconds before death claimed him.

SNAP, thrice more he was cut down by the tiny blades, and as he traveled the forest IX began searching out the devastating weapons. Dodging the miniscule blades proved near impossible, and the next dozen cycles was spent playing an intriguing game of cat and mouse with the knife thrower.

A small blade shot from IX's hand with pinpoint accuracy at the slight shift of shadow on shadow in the tree to his right. Thump, the shadowed shape fell in a crumpled heap to the forest floor, a delicate blade still clutched in his right hand, un-thrown. He continued on, his long range weapons outclassed the Shadow men who did not use them, and the forest was soon riddled with the bodies of his targets.

This time it wasn't death that initiated the change in scenery. After he'd slain every shadow man he could locate in the forest, IX fell to the ground when the world trembled and blurred before his eyes. Once the world settled again, he was standing on the top of a large concrete building.

The sound of a booted foot behind him caused IX reacted as he'd been trained, and with no wasted movement he turned; a small blade flashed between his fingers. The weapon was nearly loosed before he registered that the man wasn't attacking him. IX's stance straightened, but remained wary while he studied the new person.

He wasn't one of the shadow men. This person was dressed in a military uniform. Salt and pepper hair, cut with military precision topped the head of a fit older man who had no defining features. The man wasn't too tall, or too short. His blue eyes were not brilliantly so. They weren't watery or eye catching, and matched his equally bland nose and lips. No scars marred his face shaped face, and if he were to walk through a crowed, people asked to describe him later would be at a loss.

"The next phase of your training begins now," the voice was familiar; it was the one who'd given him the order to learn, and to kill.

"Yes, sir." IX said in a robotic tone, clean of independent thought or emotion.

The man turned, and led IX into the building. A long table was laid out with hundreds of different types of fire arms, from revolvers to rocket launchers. "You have learned to kill by hand, and by blade, now it is time to learn how to kill by bullet." He showed IX how each weapon operated, how to break them down and re-assemble them, and which ammunition each weapon took.

"Now you do it," he commanded.

IX picked up the nearest hand gun and spoke, "compact firearm." The soft swish of something cutting through the air alerted IX of the attack and he jerked his hand back. His body automatically fell into a defensive stance when the riding crop cracked against the table where his hand had been.

"Be still," the voice barked, and IX rigidly obeyed. The crop lashed out again, scoring a sharp red line across the back of his hand. "You will not fight me, and you will accept whatever punishment I wish to give you. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"What you are holding is a HK-40 USP Compact. Begin again."

IX's breath remained even and calm. His gaze held none of the anger the rebuke would have caused in an average army recruited. He simply began again, ignoring the line of pain that throbbed along the back of his hand. "HK-40 USP Compact," he said, checking that the gun was empty before pushing the pin to release the slide lock. Another sharp crack sounded when IX's inexperienced fingers fumbled during the disassembly. This time he did not flinch, attempt to pull away, or defend himself. A steady breath slid from his parted lips, and he eased the slide lock free, and set it aside before removing the spring and barrel. The man gave a sharp nod of satisfaction before motioning IX to reassemble the weapon.

Hours later, the backs of his hands were reduced to bloody shreds. Every minuscule mistake was harshly corrected by a lash of the crop. No matter how often he was corrected, IX did not respond in anger, or in any other way but to focus harder on the task even when it became difficult to move his fingers due to the damage.

"Now that you know the tools of the trade, we will begin your training," the man said briskly. "Bring the sniper rifle."

Pain clawed at him when he wrapped his ruined hands around the weapon, but he didn't allow it to control his actions. The dizzying sensation returned when they passed through the door to the roof causing IX to stumble. After the dizziness passed, the pain was gone. A glance at his hands showed them whole once more.

Instead of the complete silence that previously occupied the roof, there was noise, traffic, voices, humanity going about its every day existence. "Your targets will not always be soldiers, you must be able to take out any target that is presented to you in any situation." The man took the weapon and demonstrated how to set it up properly. It took a couple of tries for IX to position himself correctly, but this time his mistakes were not punished. Instead, the man simply adjusted the smaller male into the proper position.

"Your target is the business man in the blue suit, talking on the cell phone."

A single emerald eye focused through the scope, acquiring the target. Cross-hairs centered on the man's head before IX squeezed the trigger. The gun coughed, jerking back hard against his shoulder. A divot appeared in the building behind the man's head. He man continued walking as if nothing had happened.

"You need to account for the wind and trajectory," was the only guidance given.

IX studied the pit his shot made, and saw it went too high, and a slightly to the left. Adjusting his aim, he shot again. This time the bullet struck the man's shoulder, and still he walked on. Another shot went too far to the right. The forth clipped the back of the man's head, but it wasn't enough to be a killing shot. The fifth bullet finished the target off and he collapsed onto the sidewalk. The cell phone shattered into a million technological bits after it slid from his dead fingers and pitched onto the cement. Blood pooled around the dead man, and the other civilians on the street walked around him, unconcerned.

"Now, the woman in the red dress." It took three shots to bring her down.

"The young man on the skate board." The faster moving target took seven shots.

"The young boy in green holding the blond woman's hand" The cross hairs focused on the tiny dark haired child, without hesitation IX took the shot. The first bullet went a bit too high and struck the woman low in the chest. A second finished the child off. I should have waited until they crossed the street, then I would have had a clearer shot of the boy without risking the woman. IX observed when the bullet traveled through the young boy's head before crashing into the woman's hip in a spray of blood.

Soon, the street was littered with bodies with a varying number of holes in them. Each shot was adjusted as IX learned the art of aim though merciless repetition until he could take out any target, from a stationary one, to a thief running full out after snatching a cell phone, with a single shot to the head.

"Good," with the word, the dizzy world-altering feeling returned. Two dazed blinks later, the world had reset itself. The street was clean of carnage, and the pedestrians were again up and walking around, perusing their own interests.

"You have a single target, the little girl in the light blue dress being held by the man in the red shirt. Do not kill the man, or any of the pedestrians around him."

IX studied the target with care. In appearance, the girl couldn't be more than four or five. Her small face was bright red from weeping, and blood seeped from the scrap on her knee. From their position, they couldn't hear her crying, or the man's quiet words, but the scene was easy enough to read.

Emotionless green eyes examined the precise angle of her head where it rested on his shoulder, and he lined up the shot, waiting for the perfect moment. Small as she was, her weight still pulled at her father's arms, and he paused to hitch her up a little higher on his hip. With a sharp crack of sound, her head slammed into his shoulder with enough force to stagger him.

Screams filled the street, and the other pedestrians froze for one heart stopping instant to stare at the ruined head of the girl, and the frantic screams of her father who had fallen to his knees to cradle the limp body to his chest. He seemed unaware of the bullet wound in his shoulder, too focused on the child to notice the flesh wound. More screams picked up after his had faded into broken sobs. He rocked back and forth with the dead girl clutched in his arms as if he could protect her even though the worst had already happened.

Sunlight glinted off the scope, and one of the pedestrians noticed. With a frightened shout, he pointed up at the roof top. Instantly, the crowd surged in all directions. Terror overtook them at the thought of being the next victim.

IX watched the scene unfold, and felt nothing for the orchestrated chaos a single bullet caused.

Dr. MacKenzie tapped his finger on his notepad while the rest of the doctors found open seats around the conference table. The psychiatrist fumed in silence, unable to suppress the glare he shot at the woman who'd taken a seat three chairs down from his. He had been the designated leader of the physiological aspects of the project, until his position had been usurped by her and her wretched machine. As aggravating as that truth was, he couldn't deny the power of her technology, and how it had rendered his part in the whole project moot. They didn't need mind altering chemicals or procedures to control either weapon when they had Dr. Hines and her mind control devise. He snorted before forcing his features to smooth out into a polite mask of indifference. When her electro-voodoo failed, he'd be there to pick up the pieces.

"I called this meeting to discuss the progress of both weapons. We will begin with IX."The Professor's voice cut through the quiet chatter of the doctors, and they fell silent to listen. "The subject successfully completed his conditioning, and at 0600 tomorrow, he will be released from the holding unit. We will conduct a thorough examination before initiating testing to gauge the success of the programming. Dr. MacKenzie, you will assess his mental status. Dr. Hendry you will assess his physical status. Dr. Cornelius, you will review the bonding of the nano-technology, and insure it is functioning properly," the Professor directed while reviewing his notes. Dr. MacKenzie gave a mock salute, but didn't say anything as the Professor leveled an icy glare in his direction. At least he still had some use.

"Dr. Hines, if you would please review the progress that's been made in the Weapon X project?"

She cleared her throat before, sitting up straighter in an attempt to hide her nervousness about addressing the entire group. "Yes, Weapon X finished stage three of the conditioning and is now fully operational." Dr. Hines said, and then worried that it wasn't enough of a report, she began lecturing to fill the void "The RMI device takes control of a subject in three distinct phases, the initial phase is used to deactivate the frontal lobes of the subjects brain so that they are completely cut off from memory, emotion, and self-awareness. The subject looses the ability to distinguish the difference between reality and vivid imaginary experiences. Due to the proximity of the Broca's area of the brain the Subject has also lost the ability to form more than rudimentary sounds. The second stage actively eliminates the subject's memories and replaces them with fabricated memories of our creation. This allows us to imbed controls into the subject via memory. We will be able to manipulate his fear, inspire paranoia and activate negative emotions such as vengeance, rage, and anger, while suppressing emotions such as compassion. The third stage is critical; it is the command and control stage. During this stage, we used numerous probes and the control helmet to electronically feed commands into his brain and control muscle movement. This phase is now compete, and Weapon X no longer requires the RMI waves to keep him in thrall. His brain was successfully programmed to work without them." She finished, a light blush touched her normally pale cheeks when the Professor gave her a chastening look for going over information that everyone at the table should be familiar with by now.

"Everything is going according to schedule. We will reconvene tomorrow." He said as he stood up abruptly and left the room.

The Professor sat in his control center and keyed a command; his slate grey eyes studied the screen when tiny mechanical arms began their tireless task in preparation of the morning. With delicate precision, the probes were individually removed from the small form. It was a process that would take hours, but when it was done, the only thing that would be left was the life support mask over IX's face, and the tubes supplying air and nutrients down his throat.

Satisfied that everything was in order, the Professor retired to attempt to get a couple hours sleep before morning.

Excited tension crackled through the waiting doctors and staff as the green liquid drained from the large tank. The slender male form swathed in a cloud of long black hair came to rest on the floor of the unit. Silent questions hung phantom like, not voiced, but still present in the gathered professionals who waited for some sign of success. Did the accelerated growth work? Was the subject viable, would it be able to breathe, to function once it was removed from life support? Would it be able to speak, to walk, to fight? What if the control programming failed, and it turned on them? How dangerous was it, how vulnerable, did it work? No one dared voice their worries, but everyone from the Professor, to the lowest tech, felt the anxiety roll through the large room as the small body came to rest in the fetal position on the bottom of the containment unit.

A small jolt of electricity passed through the still body. It jerked once, before it began to stir. A delicate hand parted the long fall of wet hair before snaking around to unbuckle the mask. IX sat up with elegent slowness, tilted his head back, and tugged the mask from his face easing the tubes from his throat in one smooth motion. Some of the tension in the room eased at the action, which demonstrated the weapon was at least semi functional, and one hurdle had been crossed.

The slender, wiry muscled Weapon stood, and pushed the heavy hair behind him in an effort to keep it from inhibiting his movements.

"Open the hatch," the Professor's voice cut through the thick silence. One of the techs jumped forward to obey. A door sized hatch at the front of the unit was opened. A loud hiss signified the seal breaking, and for the first time since the incident, IX breathed air that hadn't been fed directly into his lungs via machine.

IX didn't hesitate. He stepped out of the unit on silent feet. Each movement was precise, with no wasted energy or exaggerated motion. There wasn't the sort of jerkiness some of the scientists feared would occur. The programming performed flawlessly.

Another step, emotionless jade eyes swept the room, touching on each living being, cataloging them by threat level and rank of importance. Two guards at the door, armed with tranquilizer guns, no live arms. Nine non-combatants, four lower personnel, five higher level personnel. His impersonal gaze ranked the five higher level individuals, observing how they differed to the tall slender one. He would be the primary target. The gliding steps halted while he sought out useful weapons. The woman held a pen, and was furiously scribbling on a clipboard. The guards were a minor threat. Their weapons would not be of much use if he could get a hold of a hostage.

The Professor studied the subject while it took its first steps. The movements were not shaky, and the final form of the weapon was precisely what the Director had been aiming for. Standing no more than 5'5" the young man had the ethereal look of youth about him. His chin came to a narrow point, and while nude it was clear that he was fully developed, dressed in the proper clothing he could pull off being fourteen or fifteen. The Professor's critical assessment noted the muscle definition that had developed, and he was certain the wiry strength could also be hidden beneath a proper layer of clothes. Again, the boy pushed at the long drape of hair; that will have to go, he decided. The weapon took another step. Yes, the hair just got in the way, and was too defining a feature, bad enough those eyes were so distinct.

The brilliant green gaze coupled with the deadly gliding steps put the image of an eastern green mamba in to the Professor's mind. Weapon X was more like a wolf or perhaps a bear, some large hot blooded beast that was a whirlwind of savage claws and snapping fangs. It was a brutal creation designed to intimidate and destroy, striking terror in the hearts of its targets long before those nightmarish claws tore them to bloody shreds.

IX was a different beast all together. It was serpentine in its stillness, and one look into those cold emerald orbs showed death would come just as swiftly, delivered in the blink of an eye. There was something deeply dispassionate in those empty jade pools, something that spoke to the hind-brain, and whispered that green was the color of poison, the color of death. It was in that moment, as he nearly lost himself to the hypnotic gaze that the Professor realized almost too late what was happening.

The weapon was active, and it was stalking them. His strong voice spoke just as IX began a lightning fast strike aimed for the nearest tech, the one who opened the hatch. "4285-" the four digits were enough to halt the weapon. He turned to pierce the Professor with that unearthly gaze. Having IX's entire focus directed on him was unnerving, but the Professor didn't hesitate to complete the activation code "8284910583-210982905729-8492."

The effect was instantaneous. IX stood straight, and took on a waiting pose, obedient to the Professor's will. A thrill of undeluded power coursed through him, making him feel almost giddy with the realization that he could have the weapon kill anyone in the room. It took effort, but he set aside the intoxicating feeling, and turned his attention to Dr. Hendry and Dr. MacKenzie.

"Give him a full work up and do something about that hair," he said, then his flat grey eyes locked on IX. "Follow them, and do as they say," the Professor directed before turning to leave.

"Yes, sir." The monotone reply caused everyone in the room to jump. After working for months with weapon X, having one that could speak and reason would take some getting used to.

"Right," Dr. MacKenzie said after clearing his throat a bit. "Come along then," he directed, leading the way out of the lab towards the medical ward. It took more courage than he wanted to admit to give the short killer his back, but he knew that if IX wanted him dead, then it didn't matter which way he was facing, he'd be dead. Dr. Hendry brought up the rear, studying the subject's every move.

The walk to the medical ward wasn't a long one, but both men felt like they were escorting a ghost through the halls. The youth made no sound as he moved, and didn't fidget like most people when confronted by a new situation. Every move he made had a purpose. Dr. Hendry took charge once they entered the ward.

"Stand here," he said, placing IX in the center of the room. Metal clanged off of metal while he dug through the drawers in search of scissors sturdy enough to deal with the thick fall of ebony hair. Finally, he found a pair and turned back to his patient. "This isn't going to hurt, but don't move. I don't want to cut you," the doctor said before grabbing a large fist full of the waist length hair. What he didn't know was IX would have calmly stood still and allowed the doctor to cut him if that had been his intention. His wielder instructed him to obey these men, and he would do so, no matter the request.

After the final module was complete, the man who'd taught and guided him explained that he would be entering the real world, and there death would be permanent. Wounds would not heal with the blink of an eye, and a change of scenery. Here, he would have to be careful, and not throw his life away making foolish mistakes. His life belonged to his wielder, and so did his death.

Snip, snip, snip, snip, long locks of black hair fell around him, and IX approved. The unusual weight that pulled at him from the moment he woke, decreased with every cut. Long hair was a vulnerability he could ill afford. It gave his enemies a hand hold, obscured his vision, and inhibited his mobility. A low humming sound came from the doctor while he worked. The unusual sound was familiar in a distant way, and a small flash of faded memory passed cloud like over his mind. A memory of cold, pain, and being unable to breath. He dismissed the memory as unimportant, and waited for the doctor to finish his task.

It took nearly ten minutes to sheer the mass of hair from three feet to three inches. Messy spikes of ebony covered IX's head, giving the weapon a boyish charm that made him look more like a school kid than some strange ethereal being that had stepped out of the turbulent ocean. He was still covered in drying green slime, now heavily dusted with hair clippings. Dr. Hendry wrinkled his nose at the ragged sight.

Sighing, he bustled IX off into the bathroom, and shoved him into the shower. IX followed the doctor obediently, and stepped into the stream of hot water. A low shuddering breath escaped him when the hot liquid cascaded over his flesh. It was a disturbing sensation. The water beat down on his exposed back, and deadened his hearing with its continual roar. He stifled feeling of vulnerability before scrubbing the green coat of goo from his skin and hair as fast as he could.

In less than ten minutes, IX finished and dried off before returning to the lab, unclothed and as immodest about his nude state as X was. "Done already?" Dr. MacKenzie inquired, studying the now clean youth.

"Yes, sir."

Dr. Hendry descended upon IX and began a barrage of tests, beginning with general weight and measurements. "Hmm, 5 feet one and a half inches, and 108 pounds. Not an ounce of fat on you. Sit down." He directed the small man towards the examination table to begin a more in-depth examination studying at everything from his teeth, to his bone density.

"Don't bleed him dry doc." Dr. MacKenzie snorted when the doctor filled yet another vile from the vein at the crook of IX's arm.

"Don't you have questions you should be asking, instead of standing around?" Dr. Hendry snapped at the psychologist.

"Er, right. What is your name?" he asked.

"Weapon IX."

"Your age?" The question was met with silence.

"What is your earliest memory?" he asked after a short pause.

"Pain, I remember before there was nothing, and then there was language," he said without mincing words, or elaborating further. Dr. MacKenzie nodded, satisfied with the answer and the clear indication that the subject had no memories of his prior existence.

The questions continued in this vein as the psychologist assessed the mental stability, intelligence, and memories of the subject while Dr. Hendry scrutinized his physical wellbeing.

In the end, both were satisfied with the weapon's development, and signed off on further testing.

"It's amazing how much damage we were able to overcome. His bones were so brittle when the capsulea shattered that he'd had over a dozen hairline fractures, now they are healthier than any regular Joe off the street." Dr. Hendry chortled as he wrote up his report.

Dr. MacKenzie rolled his eyes at the words before he motioned IX to stand. It didn't take long to dress the boy in a pair of plain black jeans, and an equally bland shirt. The doctor signaled to the guard standing inside the doorway.

"Take him to level four. We'll start the first test at 0900, then we'll see just how much of the programming was successfully integrated." Dr. MacKenzie said, forwarding his quickly typed report to the Professor.

Cutler stepped forward, eyeing the new weapon warily. He was small enough that if Cutler didn't know the scientists as well as he did, and hadn't seen the way the boy moved, he would have thought IX harmless. But those cold calculating eyes, coupled with the smooth glide of a predator set all his internal alerts screaming danger.

"Come on," he snapped, nudging the boy ahead of him. He wasn't about to let the Weapon walk behind him.

IX studied the table full of weapons that had been presented for his selection. "You can use whatever you want kid, just kill them before they kill you, yeah?" Cutler said, watching the boy. His hand never strayed from the tranque gun at his hip. I hope to hell this stuff works better on this one than it does on X. Wouldn't it be just their luck to have two unstoppable killers running around?

The boy studied the weapons with a keen expression. When he picked up, and discarded more than one blade, Cutler couldn't keep the surprise off his face. He knew the brat had just gotten out of his tube, so how the hell could he handle daggers with such familiarity? Probably the same way X can have daggers spring out of his knuckles, no doubt the eggheads had something to do with it. Cutler, now the most experienced guard of the lot, and the one who'd been here the longest, knew one didn't get that status by asking nosy questions.

Soon enough, IX had two well balanced daggers strapped to his calves hidden in sheaths under his pants. Another sheath, designed to hold a dozen throwing knives, was secured around his waist. The blades rested comfortably against his lower back. "All set?" Cutler asked, suppressing the urge to suggest the brat strap on a few dozen more weapons. It felt like he was sending a toddler out into a maximum security prison yard with a spork.

"Yes, sir"

Cutler frowned at the emotionless reply. What the hell had the mad scientists done now? First, they made a half mad beast, now a robot? Again, he held his tongue, not his business. Nope, his business was just to prepare the lab rats for the maze, not worry about the patchwork monsters sent in after the tasty morsels. That, and keep the damn things in line when they tried to turn and savage the scientists who insisted on prodding them.

"In you go kid, I'll go easy on you this time since it's your first round. I'll bring you someone who shouldn't be too much of a challenge," he whispered before ushering the boy into the large underground testing arena. This time, IX didn't bother acknowledge his words. Instead, he stepped into the large cement arena, already focused on the task ahead. This time, the blood that spilled would be real. "Che, how's that for gratitude?" Cutler muttered before heading to the level below to retrieve IX's first opponent.

He stepped into the long hall full of individual cells. Whistling, Cutler ignored the shouts of the prisoners, ex-lifers that had been approved by one of the Professor's associates and offered a deal no one in their right mind would refuse. Engage in a fight to the death, and go free. One of the benefits of Canada's refusal to execute its worst of the worst was that it left a number of men and women looking at an endless boring life behind bars. Of course, there were always those who would do anything for the chance at freedom, even risk death.

What they hadn't been told was that their opponent was a crazed mostly immortal killing machine with huge unbreakable knives sticking out of his fists. The devil was in the details, and most of these brutes weren't clever enough to ask. Cutler stopped when he came to Cassandra's cell. She was the only dames in residence, and he thought the brat would have an edge against her. At least she wasn't huge like the rest of the scum that inhabited this level.

Cassandra was given a life sentence after she'd been set up by a client, and the whole hit was captured on tape. She'd been one of the top assassins in Europe, and was damned lucky that she'd been caught in Canada instead of jolly old England, where more than a few people wanted to see her dead. "You're up Kitten," Cut said, unlocking her cell. His gun was out, and pointed, while he slid open the door. She just gave him a contemptuous glare, her haunting blue gaze like hard crystal.

She didn't bother attacking him, it would be worthless, and could result in an injury that would lower her chances of survival. Cassandra intended to survive. There was no doubt in her mind that no matter who her opponent was, they would underestimate her, and give her the opportunity she needed to end them.

"Don't vorry pet, I von't bite you," she purred, a provocative edge to her tone. Cutler didn't take the bait. He liked his man bits right where they were, thank you very much.

"Keep moving," he said gruffly, prodding her in the back with the tip of his gun. Soon enough, she was directed through a door into a small room which snapped shut, locking behind her. The room held a table full of bladed weapons. Cassandra stalked forward to examine the offerings. She growled under her breath as she tested and rejected each of the five katanas. It was clear that the swords hadn't been chosen by a master, but she wasn't comfortable with any other type of blade, so she settled on the second. Its balance was off, making the long blade feel uncomfortable in her grip, but she wasn't about to go into a fight weaponless.

When it was clear she was finished with her selections, a second door on the other side of the room slid open revealing a large space beyond. With iron resolve, she stepped into the space beyond, and found a large arena that had a number of metal shipping containers strategically placed to break up the open space. They gave the opponents cover when weapons other than blades were used.

She didn't notice the small shadow lying along the top of one of the containers while it observed her every move. IX slipped from his perch without betraying a sound when his target's scanning gaze moved on from his location. Above the arena, watching the first live test of the weapon, were the scientists in an enclosed viewing loft centered just under the ceiling. From their position, they had full view of the action below.

"What is he doing?" Dr. Cornelius asked when IX's demeanor shifted to something they hadn't witnessed yet. The subject's stance changed, his shoulders drooped a bit, his head tilted and those empty green eyes widened a fraction. Somehow, the subtle shifts made him look much younger. Young and terrified.

"Just watch," the Professor said, satisfaction rolled through his usual frosty tone when he ascertained IX's plan of attack.

IX took a frightened step into the open, wide green eyes looking lost and alone. Immediately, the movement drew Cassandra's attention. Her cold crystal gaze locked on him before softening. Anger washed through her veins when she realized they wanted her to kill a helpless kid, and her sharp gaze darted up to the observation area balefully before returning to the boy. His wide green eyes found her. A look of pleading, heartbreaking hope lit his young face.

"P-please…don't let them hurt me anymore." The broken whisper tore at motherly instincts she hadn't known she possessed. The Kanata was tucked though her belt before she closed the distance between them. Her hands now empty, Cassandra gathered the terrified boy into her arms. There was no way she'd cut down a child. That had been the only target she'd always refused in her profession. She'd take out woman, but never children.

"Shh, I won't hurt you. We'll get out of this, I promise. What's your name child?" her voice was as soft as it ever got while she held the boy close, offering reassurances she didn't know she could deliver. The boy could be a distraction after all, a non-combatant she'd now be forced to protect when the real threat was unleashed. It didn't matter, she would still protect him with her life if need be. Who knew what these mad men had done to the poor boy, whatever it was, she wasn't going to let them continue hurting him.

"Weapon IX." The emotionless voice caused her to jerk back, straight into the blade that had been poised behind her. The small four inch dagger slipped with expert skill between her ribs before plunging deep into her heart. As Cassandra fell, her stunned eyes locked on the boyish face, now void of fear. His emerald eyes held no emotion while he watched his would be rescuer collapse, her life's blood pooled at his feet. Even as she died, Cassandra couldn't keep the horror off her features when she realized what they had done. They'd turned an innocent child into a weapon, and he'd taken life with the same ease other children took sweets. It was so wrong, so twisted, that when the darkness claimed her, she couldn't help but feel a deep pity for the boy who wasn't, and never would be, a child.

"Well, that was rather anti-climatic." Dr. MacKenzie drawled, suppressing a shiver of fear. Deep down, he knew if the boy had pulled that little stunt when he'd stepped out of his holding chamber, he would have fallen for it and ended up as dead as the woman now crumpled at IX's feet. It was eerie to watch the subject shift from terrified boy, to cold killer in the blink of an eye, and to realize that the scared child was just a mask, skin deep and utterly false.

"The weapon assessed the situation and chose the attack most suitable for his opponent," the Professor declared, satisfied with the weapons performance. "Go get something with a bit more fight," he demanded, not bothering to look at Cutler.

"Yes, sir," Cutler replied, his words an unconscious echo of the one's the boy had given him. He refused to admit that the efficient, devious killing method of the egghead's newest weapon made him feel ill. There was something sick about the way IX manipulated the woman into simply walking to her death like a lamb to slaughter. At least with X the lab rats know they're in trouble, he thought sourly.

Max was a mountain of a man, nearly seven feet tall, and roped with thick muscle. His mahogany skin was crisscrossed with knife scars, and Cutler knew the brute was a damned good knife fighter. If Cut was being truthful, he'd admit that he wanted to see IX punished for what he'd done to Cassandra. The kind feelings he'd had for the boy when he'd chosen her as his first target died on the edge of his indifferent blade, and now he hoped that Max got in a few good hits before IX took him down. Even though IX's waist was smaller than one of Max's bulging arms, Cutler had little doubt who would prevail in the upcoming contest.

These people are all just cannon fodder. It was something all the guards, and even the more squeamish of the scientists like Cornelius, who had protested most when the first of the criminals fell to X's claws, had come to terms with. But it was different with Weapon X, who was a killer in every sense of the word. IX appeared so small, so helpless. Watching him kill with even more efficiency than X, who tended to play with his prey, was shocking.

The huge man ducked to enter the weapons room. He chose two massive hunting daggers that looked more like short swards in the hands of an average person, but in those large paws they looked almost delicate.

"Come out, come out where ever you are." The deep baritone voice thrummed while Max's dark cavernous eyes scanned the arena. Silence met his request. With a shrug, he began hunting. It didn't take him long to find the remains of IX first victim. A snort bellowed out of him, and he kicked the body over to see the single wound in her back. "Let down your guard didn't you, Princess? Well, that won't happen to m—"

The word was cut off by the delicate blade lodged at the base of his skull, severing the giant man's spinal cord with indifferent ease. Like a mighty oak, the huge man swayed and toppled. His bulk crushing the smaller form of the woman already on the ground. He hadn't even seen the boy who stood up from his crouch on top of one of the containers.

"This is useless, the targets aren't durable enough to get a true reading of IX's skills. Retrieve X," the Professor demanded, exasperation underlining the words. He knew that even if he unleashed all the criminals he had in stock against IX, the boy would just pick them off from the shadows. No, they didn't have the skill required to put up a challenge.

"Are you sure that's wise? X will kill him," Dr. Cornelius cautioned.

"We will not give X the command to kill, only IX. If the fight gets out of hand, we'll abort the test. Now, go get X," the Professor said, his tone putting an end to further arguments.


	5. On the Principles of Defeat

"Be careful that victories do not carry the seed of future defeats." - Ralph W. Sockman

* * *

Ghosting through the arena, IX took the time between opponents to explore the battlefield. It didn't take long for him to realize he was not the first to be tested in the space. Large splashes of flakey rust accented the cement. IX didn't need a closer look to recognize old blood. Delicate looking fingers traced a set of three long, precise cuts in one of the shipping containers. He studied the marks, examining their clean lines. Most of the marks were accompanied by dry pools of old blood.

Now familiar with the layout, IX returned to the high ground, positioning himself near the first two kills. Just as the corpse of the woman had been the downfall of the giant, IX assumed the pair would give the next opponent pause, leaving them open to attack. Light glinted off the small blade held between his practiced finger tips, waiting to find its mark.

* * *

"Come on," Cutler growled, opening the holding cell where X was kept when it wasn't being tested. The beast paused its restless pacing before following like an obedient dog.  _Well, I guess it's better than when it was a zombie,_  Cutler's disgruntled thought made his lips pull back in a sour grimace. He led X through the corridors. During stage two, when X wore that helmet, it had shuffled along a dead thing out of a horror flick, at least until it was given the command to kill. Then it moved like quicksilver in a savage dance of death that nothing could stand against.  _We'll see who comes out on top this time, the animal, or the psycho-kid._ When the mind control helmet finally came off, X was more like a caged panther than a zombie. Those predatory sable eyes tracked anything that moved, and even though it wouldn't attack until so ordered, its muscles would flex under tan skin, ever ready to leap into action. It was damned freaky, and Cutler hated the fact that his advanced level of clearance made him the 'prep the weapon' guy.

_And now they have this new one, which is even freakier than X. Damned eggheads really topped themselves this time._ Cutler didn't know what it was about the kid that bothered him so much more than X. Perhaps it was because when an enemy saw X coming, they damn well knew their asses were toast. But the kid, he was something else.  _Assassin_. That was it. The little bastard was nothing more than a shadow stalker, something any good soldier, even an ex-soldier such as himself, found repulsive. IX wasn't a fighter, he wasn't honorable, and didn't give his opponents a sporting chance to defend themselves.  _No one can stand against X, but at least they see death coming and have a chance, no matter how small, to make peace with it._

The second difference between the two weapons that made Cutler favor X was that all one had to do was look at him to see he was a threat, a danger. The boy looked so….innocent. His delicate frame and large green eyes, though blank, were captivating in a way that made a person think of a lost kitten in the woods. Yet any who dared reach down to stroke it, would find poisoned fangs buried in their arm before they knew the danger existed. It was disconcerting to see the fragile young man so effortlessly kill.  _Damn the scientists anyway._

* * *

He paced the small confined space that had become his cage. Each restless circuit did little to blunt his fierce instinct to prowl. The heavy chains on his mind kept the blades that would have freed him secure in his flesh. Instead he paced, waiting for the next time he could hear the blades sing, and let the bloodlust reign free, unfettered by his masters. The endless motion stilled when the heavy steel door slid open with a near soundless hiss.

Scent, the sharp tang of lemon from the soap favored for removing blood, leather from the holster of the useless weapon, the bitter stink of fear, carefully controlled. Brown locked on blue, revealing the creature's insatiable bloodlust as they pinned the guard in place. Natural instinct screamed at the sandy haired man to run, run and never look back even as his spine pricked, already feeling those deadly claws slicing through his flesh. The large scar on his side where he'd tasted the deadly edge of X's weapons tingled from the adrenalin coursing through his bloodstream. Blue skittered away, even bound as X was by the orders keeping it contained, Cutler couldn't win a staring contest with the weapon. It was too much like looking at his own death.

"Come on," Cutler commanded, leading the way to the arena. He left behind the thick stench of fear all who worked closely with the weapon, especially any who'd had to clean up after it was finished testing, experienced. The new contingent of guards didn't understand Cutler's skittishness when it came to X, but then again, they'd never been hunted by the beast. It was one thing to clean up the mess left behind when X had its fun with a few convicts. It was something else again when you heard those terrible claws wrench through five inches of steal, and knew unstoppable death was stalking the halls.

_Thank God above that the damned eggheads finally got control of it, at least now we don't have to worry about it going ape shit any time there's a hiccup in the power,_  Cutler thought when he opened the door to the arena, and ushered his charge into the room with one final command "Don't kill this one," he said firmly. It was the first time X had been given such a command. He was a search and destroy weapon after all, but it wasn't Cut's problem if the weapon didn't get it.

Unlike previous subjects, Cutler turned and ran for the stairs to the observation station. No way in hell he was going to miss this battle.  _Let the brat face something he can't off in one hit, that'll put him in his place._

Cutler was a betting man, and he'd already laid down a twenty that X would wipe the floor with IX, no way could the boy win. Then again, he hadn't expected him to take out the last convict with such ease.  _It doesn't matter, IX's never faced anything like X before._ The thought caused Cutler's foot to hesitate on the stairs. Was it true? The way the kid moved, how well he handled those knives. It was impossible for someone to throw a blade with that kind of accuracy without a lick of training. What had the scientists done to create IX? It was clear after the last two demonstrations that it hadn't just been the boy's body that was altered in the green goo. He shrugged, even if they designed to tell him what they'd done, it would probably go over his head anyway.

* * *

X stalked into territory had become more familiar than the little room they always returned him to after the killing was done. His nostrils flared. The scent of fresh death caused his bloodlust to surge, darkening his vision when he tasted the hot liquid lingering in the air. Fresh blood, fresh blood that hadn't been spilled by him. A low snarl curled his lips when he realized another predator was stalking his hunting ground.  _Shink,_  six glistening adamantium claws tore free, eager to cut the trespasser down and paint the walls red with his blood.

A predatory lope devoured the space between X and the downed prey. He'd get the spoor of the invader there. The heavy metallic scent of blood hid the subtler scent of the one he sought, but the other predator would have had to close with the prey to kill it. The scent would be strongest at the kill. It wasn't long before X entered the small clearing bracketed by four large containment units. There two bodies laid in an unceremonious heap. Blood formed a thick, congealing pool beneath them, but they weren't torn apart like X's victims often were. There was something almost clinical about the deaths, both precise, and indifferent. Another snarl dripped from his parted lips.

The clawed man paced closer to the dead as he sought out the scent that didn't belong to either corpse. A scent, more subtle than the wind, and as implacable as shadow curled through his nostrils when something tangled in his thick hair. Before X could react to the unexpected attack, the almost light touch became a fierce jerk when the hand twisted, securing its grip. Small feet crashed into the larger man's back, and the hold on his hair yanked even tighter, forcing the mutant to his knees with the long line of his neck exposed to IX's dagger. Without hesitation, the sharp blade lashed out. The screech of metal on metal squealed through the arena when the dagger screamed off of the adamantium sheathed spine. A fountain of blood gushed from the bone deep wound, even as X's healing factor began repairing the damage. The large man toppled forward, choking on his own blood as it poured down his severed windpipe. IX leapt nimbly off the broad back, landing with feline grace a few feet away from his latest conquest.

Jaded green eyes studied the clawed man, making the connection between those long blades and the marks that littered the arena. Something akin to disappointment flashed through those flat orbs before it faded back to blankness. He'd expected more from someone who'd been tested more than once on the killing field. With an indifferent shrug, IX snaked back up to the top of one of the containers. His bare feet found purchase on the metal, and he'd learned long ago that he who had the high ground often proved victorious. They would be releasing the next target soon. _Perhaps they will release more than one_ , IX hoped.

A low rumble snapped IX's head around to stare at the not so dead man.

* * *

Dark fury tore through X, growing with his returning strength. The pain of the blade, delivered before he'd even realized he was being stalked, spurned the beast and with a roar X leapt to his feet. A crimson tide of his own blood, so rarely spilled in this arena, painted his chest and dampened the already stained pair of jeans that sheathed his lower body.

Some slight sound, the scuff of a bare foot on metal, or the gentle rustle of breathing, drew the deadly gaze of the predator to the slight form hanging by fingers and toes to the edge of the container. The illusive scent, so startlingly free of fear, called to X, challenging him to try and defeat it. Green chipped ice locked on fiery brown and held. Alien thoughts twisted behind those poison green eyes, so different from blue, and brown, grey and black. They held none of the rage, the determination, or desperation that prior specimens offered. Even the most coldly calculating gaze could not sustain composure after the first altercation revealed X's unique talents. But deadly green, flat and lifeless just watched him, offering none of the prey instinct that made the chase so delicious.

Primitive thoughts raked his mind, acknowledging that this was the first true predator he'd been presented with. The others, no matter how strong or aggressive, had all been prey in the end. Animal instinct recognized what the other humans in this pathetic place failed to. Size was meaningless, what mattered was the potency of one's bite, and X recognized a fellow deadly creature at a glance. Primal excitement coursed through the weapon. After all the worthless creatures that feed his bloodlust, here was a real challenge. With another roar, X leapt.

Saber-like claws sank deep into the metal side of the container IX clung to. A delicate, palm length blade lashed out before X could get his balance, slashing the tendons of the left arm. Silvery metal glinted when the blade scored down to the bone, revealing just how indestructible his opponent was. Still, fear didn't flavor his scent, just cold acceptance. The hand went limp for the few vital seconds it took for IX to dart up to the top of the container.  _Screechhhh,_ claws tore through the place he'd been a second prior. Effortlessly, IX rolled to his feet and ran, leaping from container to container as he formulated a strategy for dealing with the threat.

Behind him, growling like a hell hound, X gave chase. His longer legs closed the distance between them at an alarming rate, and IX ran full out towards the edge of the last container. As the edge neared, IX calculated the distance before leaping. His slender body bent cat like in the air, twisting so that he faced the container. Fingers darted out, catching the edge. An explosive grunt escaped the small body when his momentum attempted to yank him free of the container.

Just as X leapt after him, IX turned again and clung to the metal surface with one hand. A bare foot lashed out in a brutal kick to the side of X's head when his leap took him past IX's new position. The blow sent the elder weapon careening into the wall three feet away, and would have proved fatal to a lesser creation. IX kicked off the side of the container, and pulled both daggers as he fell. His slight weight was still enough to cause X's breath to explode in a pained bellow when IX landed on his exposed stomach. Using the fall to his advantage, IX drove both blades into X's large chest, shredding heart and lungs in one ruthless twist. The beast below him bucked hard enough to send IX flying into the wall. One of the daggers caught on adamantium sheathed ribs, and was wrenched from IX's grip.

Another bellow escaped X, fury erupted when the slight male drew his blood for a second time. He tore the blade free before throwing it to the side. IX sprang to his feet, the second blade held in a reverse grip as he lashed out with unstoppable speed. The honed blade tore through X's abdomen, but instead of spilling his enemy's intestines as IX intended; the wound healed almost as fast as it was made.

Sometime during the chase, X's claws had retracted. The order not to kill clamped down on his mind like a choke collar. IX's attack brought him too close, and a large fist slammed into his side with enough force to bounce him off the wall, sending him to his knees. A muffled gasp was the only sound IX gave while he rolled with the force, and brought his leg up to slam a heel into X's knee. The bone didn't give, but as X stumbled back, a snarl curling his lips. IX knew he'd torn ligaments.

Wasting no time, the small assassin darted to his feet, a glint of silver was the only warning X had before one of the throwing knives buried itself to the hilt an enraged brown orb. This time, X keened in agony. He ripped the blade free, blood and thicker fluids gushed from the wound, but the pain was pushed aside. X launched himself at IX. The deadly shink of claws tearing free caused IX to turn, bringing the last dagger up in an attempt to block the blow that fell too fast to dodge.

The dagger was nothing in the face of X's enhanced claws. They cut through it like a laser, and as they continued their decent unhindered, IX's eyes locked on the shadow cast by the container.  _If only I were like the shadow men, and could walk through the shadows,_  IX thought philosophically while death descended upon him. Warmth tingled along the back of his spine, and before the blades scored his flesh, IX vanished, reappearing in the deep shadow cast by the container. He didn't hesitate, or question how, IX simply continued his assault. Miniscule blades flew, striking several vital points on X. Each was brushed off as bothersome mosquitos, the wounds healing without care for the fatal nature of the placements.

* * *

"What happened?" The Professor snapped, he'd been seconds away from giving the order for X to stand down when IX vanished into thin air. Up until that point, the Professor had been quite pleased with the progress IX made. There was no doubt that if it wasn't for X's mutation, the weapon would have been defeated in the first altercation, or in any of the following ones. But, that was the terrible beauty of Weapon X. It continued on, relentlessly, until the target was destroyed. So far, of everything they'd thrown at X, IX had lasted the longest.

"Got him! He's behind X and continuing the assault," one of the techs exclaimed, pointing at the slender shadow, now lurking in the deeper shadows where little arrows of death winged out of the darkness and pelted the larger weapon.

"They work," Dr. Cornelius chortled after examining a readout that scorlled over his computer screen.

"What works?" The Professor demanded. His eyes didn't twitch in the doctor's direction, too focused on the battle below to risk missing a single move.

"The nano-technology. It funneled the power generated in his brain stem up to the higher level so that he could access it. I doubt he has any control over it at this point, but the technology is functioning properly, and with further testing we will learn the full scope of the subject's mutation." Dr. Cornelius said. He digested the data, his mind already working out further tests and concepts to try. This was the first time the subject had teleported, but if the initial reports were correct, then he could also create fire, and heal himself. The mutation was the most unique one Cornelius had witnessed, and he had little doubt that the green eyed mutant had more in store for them.

"Excellent."

* * *

X stood frozen for the space of three heart beats. The little predator had vanished, leaving a near intoxicating scent of thrumming power behind. It was like the shadows were streaked with lightning, and somewhere inside the beast recognized a power greater than itself. The sharp scent of smoke on the wind which heralded a wildfire that would drive even the most ferocious before it.  _Thump…thumpthumpthump_. Stabbing pain cut through him, but his mutation was already adapting to the attacks, each cut healed faster than the last until only a small trickle of blood showed where the cuts marred his flesh. Shaking himself like a great beast coming out of the water, X turned to attack the fleet footed predator nipping at his heels.

His fist skimmed IX's slender jaw before IX vanished again. This time, he re-appeared in the shadows of a container twenty feet away. X snarled and gave chase while IX attempted to wear the other out before his own energy was spent. Five jumps later, and he knew the plan was a failure. Whatever power permitted him to shadow walk wasn't limitless, and the tremble in his limbs warned him that jumping was too expensive to use recklessly.

_He tracks me though scent,_ IX realized when those fierce brown eyes locked on the container he'd been resting on top of while he tried to regain his breath. IX managed to slink off the container before X reached the top. With silent steps, he ran between the narrow junctions. Slender fingertips traced over the three remaining knives. Without fear, he pulled one and slashed a shallow cut along the edge of his palm. Seconds after the ruby liquid began to flow, a maddened roar echoed through the arena. IX smeared blood along the edge of the container before running, leaving a long trail of crimson drops behind him like bread crumbs.

Faster than he'd expected, X burst out in front of him. His brown eyes wild as his nostrils flared with the heady scent of IX's blood. The scent was more vivid than color in that moment, and X's mind roared with fury that he hadn't been the one to score that first mark against the younger male. A guttural snarl twisted X's face into something beastly but, IX's scent remained fearless, utterly clean of all the emotions that usually filled his prey. It was exhilarating to leap at one who didn't flinch back, or flee in blind terror.

IX used the blood scent to drive X to greater heights of fury while he ducked and weaved around each attack. His slender hand snaked out to sink into a pressure point in X's armpit, the limb went limp before he followed it up with a sharp jab to the throat, but even those delicate bones, so easy to crush in a normal human, were too resilient. The force of the blow split the skin of X's throat, and dainty adamantium sheathed bones grouched small chunks out of IX's knuckles.

The arm IX thought incapacitated sprang to life, and a fist buried itself in his midsection with enough force to cause him to fold around it. Agony tore through the assassin when the blow knocked the wind out of him, and left him gagging while his body rebelled. Before he could react, X slammed him into the wall and held him up several feet above the floor with a single paw-like hand. IX's breath came in short harsh gasps. His eyes flashed before he's hand snaked behind him to draw one of the few knives he had left.

X bared his teeth at the small male in his grasp, but it had no effect as the blade lashed out. The strike was surgically precise, slicing through muscle and tendon to lodge between the delicate bones of the elbow with a grinding crunch, causing the arm holding him in place to seize, releasing him. IX crumpled when his legs hit the ground, not fully recovered from the last hit. Before he could stand, a foot lashed out to catch him full in the face. IX blurred out of existence before the blow could land.

He reappeared in the shadow of the container closest to the corpses. Exhaustion made IX's steps falter. His magical core, still young an unused to such strain, was drained. Fear of death was obliterated during his training, and IX didn't hesitate to continue the battle even though his strength was flagging, and his opponent was unbeatable with the tools present. It didn't matter, all that mattered where his orders to kill. He would do his upmost to fulfill those ordered, even if it cost him his life.

Swaying, IX knelt and ripped the large dagger, which was a sword in his small grip, out of the stiffing hands of the huge corpse. An instant before X reached his new position, IX scrambled to the top of the original container to wait.

For the second time X stepped into the small clearing made by the four containers. His predatory gaze lifted just as IX made his move. The massive blade was held in a doubled handed grip when he launched himself off the top of the container. This time, X was swifter. One hand reached out and caught the blade, which had been poised to lop off his head, in an unbreakable grip as the other plowed into IX's right side.

Darkness ate at IX's vision after his body was smashed with brutal force into the cold cement. The thud of his skull against the unyielding ground reverberated through the arena. Before the scientists could react, X had the young male pinned beneath him. IX's concussion blurred eyes managed to lock on predatory sable, still fearless, still defiant…still so much more than any other's. And so much less. A low growl thrummed deep in X's throat before he tore IX's black shirt, exposing a well-defined, if slender chest blotched by deep bruises.

* * *

"Sir? Shouldn't we stop him?" Dr. Hines asked, her face pinched in worry while they watched the defeat unfold. The memory of the gaping wound in a guard's throat flashed behind her forest green eyes. She knew better than most how it wasn't just the blades one had to worry about when fighting Weapon X.

"No."

"I'm not…"

"No." This time the tone would tolerate no argument. The Professor watched the drama reach its panicle. He'd given the order not to kill, and the Professor, ever curious, wanted to see how well his new pet was trained. If it happened to kill IX? Unlikely, but if so, it only proved that weapon IX was inferior to begin with.

* * *

X's head dipped down, nuzzling the exposed flesh. His tongue trailed over IX's muscular shoulder, tasting the sweat and exhaustion, deliciously free of fear. The flavor was clean and sharp, exciting his predatory instincts in a way that prey never could. Another low rumble vibrated his massive chest when a blade tore through his liver. Even now, beaten and at the end of his strength, the smaller predator fought him.

Teeth sank into flesh, unleashing a wave of exquisite blood that made his lips tingle with phantom power. IX hissed, arching against the pain. The blade gave another savage, if futile, twist, soaking him in blood but did little to dislodge X. Instead of the ripping pain he'd expected when the teeth lodged in his shoulder, they retracted, and a tongue lapped languidly at the free flowing blood.

The taste was addictive. X gave a deep rumble, this one of satisfaction. It rolled through him even when IX's form blurred for an instant. The sharp lightning like scent flared higher before fading. The small body went limp, unconsciousness sweeping the defeated Weapon into darkness.

* * *

Dr. Hines face burned beat red when X's vitals began to flare in a way she'd never seen before. It didn't take a scientist to figure out what the readout was eluding to, but the mere idea made her feel ill. The readouts had to be wrong, of course. The swift clatter of keys drew the Professor's attention. "Dr. Hines?"

"I-er…there seems to be…" The numbers were the same, she hadn't been mistaken. "It…well…it appears…." She stuttered, unable to voice the words.

"What is it?" Each barbed word cut into her, refusing to tolerate nothing but a clear concise answer.

"It would appear that X is…experiencing a physical reaction to IX," he hedged, not sure how to report her findings without being crude.

"Don't be daft woman, he can't experience…" Dr. MacKenzie began to snap.

"If you don't believe me look for yourself!" She snapped back before he could finish. The laptop was thrust in his direction, and it didn't take long for Dr. MacKenzie to confirm her speculation.

The Professor left the children to their squabbling. His slate grey eyes were locked on the actions below while old plans were discarded, and new ones rose to take their place. X stood, his body showed evidence of his attraction, but training overrode anything as mundane as bodily reactions, and his weapon was waiting for further orders now that IX had been neutralized. Still, there was something about X's gaze, lingering on the fallen form, something almost protective in the way he stood over the unconscious male that the Professor found most informative.

"Be quiet both of you," he said before he turned to face them. "This is to our advantage."

"What? But, he…we can't have our weapon, f-fornicating with the other one!" Dr. Hines protested, disgust clear in every word.

"Be silent," the Professor said, the words laced with ice. Dr. Hines snapped her mouth shut on further protests, knowing they wouldn't be heeded.

"They will not, as you so eloquently put it, be fornicating. We stripped X of his humanity, and one of the benefits of creating a beast is that it behaves as such. I've wondered if X would react to any of the female convicts, and he's already proven uninterested in them. Even the one I made sure was ovulating at the time garnered no reaction." Dr. Hines gasped at the admission.

"Now, unlike a human male who takes his pleasure as he will, a beast is triggered by biological cues. Just as in nature, there are those rare parings between males of monogamous species. It appears that X shares this trait. That is to our benefit, because X has fixated on IX, we don't have to worry about it fixating on some weak female or another male not in our control. Furthermore, IX will never respond to the overtures. He won't give off the scent cues X requires to inspire mating behavior. As you see, this is only to the benefit of the program that X focuses his baser desires on IX." Truly he couldn't have found a better solution if he'd planned it this way. The Professor gave his razor thin smile. "I believe testing for the day is done, Dr. Hendry if you would tend to IX. Dr. Cornelius, work up a plan for developing IX's mutation. That is all," he finished, dismissing the staff.

* * *

Magic was limited only by the caster's imagination, and unfortunately, the government's imagination was limited to destruction and infiltration. Magic was also a fickle thing, and if the caster believed something, it would often bend to that belief even against all logic and demonstration to the contrary.

"Try it again." Dr. Cornelius said to the young man standing in the middle of the large empty training room. IX didn't huff or grumble like someone else might have when told to attempt something impossible for the eleventh time. Empty green eyes focused on the bright, shadowless area. Warmth tingled along his spine, but nothing happened. "Alright, the nanos are functioning, and the power is flowing but it is being blocked. Hmm, well I believe this is a dead end. It would appear that your teleportation ability is limited to shadows."

Dr. Cornelius wrote up the results of numerous tests in IX's file. In full light, IX was incapable of teleporting. It appeared that he had to be standing in a shadow, and the area he reappeared in also had to contain shadows. Secondly, he didn't have to see where he was teleporting to. But, he had to have been there prior. Another unique aspect was that the mutation seemed to sense if there was a shadow to land in or not. During the course of experimentation, he'd found that if he turned on a light in a room IX couldn't see, the subject was unable to execute the teleportation.

The fire was something Dr. Cornelius was still leery of. It only took a few tests to ascertain that there was something unearthly about the flames. They didn't require fuel to burn, and if IX's focus wavered in the slightest, they began to grow out of control.

IX's mutation was the most unique form Cornelius had ever studied. The mutation wasn't limited to any fixed feature like most were. If he had to classify it, the best he could come up with was that IX had the power of energy. Even that was too vague, because it was a type of energy that couldn't be measured or properly documented. They'd learned early on in the testing that his power and electricity did not function well in close proximity. So the doctor was forced to be creative, and dew inspiration mostly from science fiction.

"This time, try and shape a wall around you. I'll throw ping pong balls at you, and we'll see if you can stop them." Cornelius said, and snatched up three of the small white balls. The guards protested when Cornelius stole some of their recreation balls, but he didn't care. It was better than starting with actual weapons. "Ready? Okay, here we go."

IX pictured an adamantium wall between him and the doctor. Even though the little balls were harmless, he still attempted to form the strongest wall possible, knowing that if it worked as the doctor wished it, harmless balls would only be the beginning.

The doctor, like most men in his field, wasn't the most active person when it came to physical exertion. The first ball fell short of where IX had placed the wall. He said nothing when Cornelius blushed and blustered before throwing the next one. This one flew true, and bounced off an invisible wall a foot away from where IX stood. "Brilliant!" The doctor shouted, excitement making his wide waist jiggle when he gave a little hop of triumph.

By the end of the week, they found that IX could shadow walk. He was proficient at creating and containing the unusual fire, and could create a spherical shield five feet in diameter around himself that could stop everything they dared throw at him. The shield only functioned if he stood still, and he could maintain it for an hour at top strength. He could hold it longer if he lowered the strength level, but there wasn't a level low enough for him to hold while moving. They learned that locks also yielded to his strange power, and if he focused he could move completely unnoticed through a crowd.

* * *

"Yes, sir," the Professor said, uploading the data from the last round of testing. Both subjects were performing to the Director's specifications and beyond. In the past month, the pair became a devastating team that even the best trained soldiers couldn't stand against. Pride flared in every word the Professor spoke while he touted his success.

"Both subjects have adapted well to each other, and IX is fully in control of X during missions. This permits IX to make decisions at critical junctions in the field that would have been a large limitation to Weapon X if it was deployed with verbal commands alone. The nano communications system was successfully implanted in IX, and I've forwarded you the uplink and security codes. I believe the pair are going to be the most potent weapon the Department has ever wielded," he finished almost breathlessly. IX and X were the crown jewels of the Professor's career. No military in the world would be able to boast such advanced weapons. Bombs were too destructive in this day and age, but IX and X could act as a scalpel to cut out troublesome groups without causing structural damage to the area around them.

"All that is left is field testing, sir," the Professor stated, finishing his report.

"Your work is superb as always Professor. I will arrive within the week to start the next phase of the project."

"Next phase?" The Professor questioned, but the line had gone dead. Fear crunched in his gut like dead leaves under foot, but he pushed the sensation away. The Director was, as ever, tight lipped, doling out information in dribs and drabs. This was no different.

* * *

4285-8284910583-210982905729-8492

Emerald eyes snapped open in the darkness when the voice crackled through his mind. "Commencing operation Deadwood, I repeat: operation Deadwood," the stern voice echoed silently in his head while details of the operation were uploaded into his brain.

IX stood, liquid grace flowing through each movement. He didn't require light, having memorized the confining space that held him when he wasn't being tested. Off the bed, two steps forward, seven steps to the right.

"Open," he whispered, the word clean of emotion; lacking even the excitement that would have coursed through a lesser weapon in the face of his first live mission. The lock released under the insistent nudge of his magic.


	6. Deadwood

"The greatest enemy will hide in the last place you would ever look." – Julius Caesar

* * *

Jonas gave a jaw cracking yawn. Grunting, he shifted his weight to the other aching foot in an attempt to stay awake. The craving for nicotine made him irritable, every minute ticked by with the slowness of an anemic snail on a salt lick. He glared at the blank wall of the hall across from his post. "I don't see why short spokes needs a guard anyway. It isn't like the little robot would scratch his nuts without a direct order," he whined to the empty corridor. Being stuck on babysitting duty was one of the least favorable duties. At least with X there was the delicious tingle of fear that the beast might get feisty and do something interesting. It was similar to the fear one felt at an amusement park. Safe, with just a spike of adrenalin to keep a guy awake during the long night hours. After the mad scientist finished scrambling X's brains, the subject had been as tractable as a coon hound. That didn't stop the stories told in the barracks like ghost stories in summer camp. Whispers about how the weapon had gone rogue and killed everyone, how it was unstoppable, how it could take down entire armies the way an exterminator would wipe out a colony of cockroaches.

Even though most of the higher level guards had seen how deadly IX could be, the small childlike male didn't inspire the same degree of terror in the guards. Or any terror at all.  _Hell, I've seen more frightening kittens,_  Jonas thought with a sour smile. He fingered his lighter, grinning at the silvery scar that curled around his left finger. Yes, there were cats more horrifying than IX. Just three more hours of kid sitting, and he'd be free to smoke and catch a few hours of sleep before the above ground tests needed to be set up for X.

Playing keeper for a bunch of patchwork monsters wasn't what Jonas had in mind when he signed up for the army, but the hazard pay was freaking awesome, and so far there hadn't been any problems. It was a level of boring on par with playing shuffle board at an old folk's home, but every now and then he was on the rotation observing the experiments, and damn was that entertainment! Especially X, it was the sort of blood sport movies tried to re-create but never quite succeeded.  _Imagine how much money one episode of X-games would rake in!_  God that would be the reality show to end all reality shows. The amusing thought brought a chuckle to the young man's lips while he leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms. Yes, X was the one to watch. The other, you never ever saw him act, just bodies hitting the floor. It wasn't fun when the test subjects didn't know what was happening before death had them in its indifferent clutches.

The soft hiss of the hatch opening next to him pulled Jonas out of the light doze he'd fallen into. Blinking back another yawn, the twenty-year-old guard stared at the short young man standing on the threshold of what should have been a secure door. IX was fully outfitted, weapons and all,  _and who the hell put him away without removing his weapons?_  Jonas wondered, knowing someone was going to get their ass chewed for the breach in protocol.

"What's up small fry?" Jonas quibbled. It had become a game for the guards to see who could get the cold young man to react. So far, no one found the right smart ass remark to get a rise out of the weapon, but it was fun to try. Jade eyes locked on his face, and Jonas felt the normal chill sweep through him when the dead looking eyes settled on him.

Before he could register something had gone wrong, a blade sank hilt deep into his throat. Panic clawed rodent-like through his chest when he tried to draw a breath and gagged on a flood of his own blood. Stumbling, he collapsed, convulsing on the floor while small booted feet drifted into his field of vision. With numb indifference, a fine boned hand reached down and jerked the blade free with a spray of arterial blood. Darkness ate at Jonas's vision. His limbs grew heavy, and spiraled down into death. The last thought that flitted through his darkening mind was:  _I was afraid of the wrong one…_

* * *

Alarms blared and crackled through the underground complex.  _ALERT…ALERT…ALERT…WEAPON IX HAS GONE ROGUE, ALL GUARDS REPORT TO THE ARMORY, I REPEAT WEAPON IX HAS GONE ROGUE._ The loud speaker squealed its disastrous news on all levels of the facility while a small bloodstained shadow stepped back into its darkened room and vanished.

Cutler tumbled out of bed, years in the army trained him to go from a dead sleep to full alertness in an instant, and he used that edge to jerk on his pants and stuff his feet into his shoes. He shouted at the lay about guards who weren't so well trained, and were still floundering in bed.  _Well that's going to bloody well change once we get IX back under control,_ he thought with a grim smile. When he was done with them, they'd be afraid to sleep without one eye open. The quality of guards, and their adherence to protocol had been slipping in past few weeks due to the illusion that the scientists had control of their pet psychos. But Cutler knew better. He knew that those two were just bombs ready to go off at the slightest opportunity. Sometimes, he hated being right.

Unlike his predecessor, Cutler remained in the barracks with his men. He believed it was better for him to remain among them, than to pretend he was some lofty general above them. After witnessing how power had gilded the General and made him dull witted, Cutler vowed not to let the same happen to him. So he kept his habits and schedule the same as it had always been. There were more responsibilities of course, he was responsible for all of the rotations and deciding what duties each of the guards performed on a weekly basis. Aside from that, he worked and lived with his men.

In less than a minute, he was dressed and ready to go while the rest of the men were still fumbling their way up to consciousness. "Come on! Time to get to work," his gruff tone promised dire consequences to anyone who wasn't ready to go. Shoving the door open, he ran for the armory.  _At least it isn't X, the tranque guns will be enough to take the runt down. We won't need the heavy stuff for him,_ Cutler decided as he ran, making plans on the fly. He'd never thought they'd be forced to deal with IX going rogue, sloppy. He should have at least entertained the idea and created a plan for dealing with it. Now he had to improvise, but that didn't matter. Cutler was good at thinking on his feet.

* * *

A low growl rumbled through the darkness when IX stepped out of the shadows. X's large hand closed over his throat, holding him in place as X loomed over him. Soft breath ghosted over IX's hair while X drank in the scent of his little mate, tangy with the aroma of fresh blood. The soft prick of metal against skin was all the warning he received before honed silver slashed through the space his stomach had previously occupied. Swift as a tiger dodging the temperamental claws of its mate, X leapt back.

"Eliminate them all." The command hung like spider silk in the darkness after IX vanished onto roads only open to him. Another low snarl pierced the gloom and the deadly  _shink_  of claws extending punctuated the sound with promised violence. The order was given, and as the blood tide rose in his veins, something buried deep in his subconscious stirred, flavoring animal blood lust with hungry vengeance.

The thick steel door parted like damp tissue under his adamantium claws, and bullets carved dark holes in his chest when the guard at his door reacted accordingly. Terrified brown eyes watched the large gouges heal and Seth stumbled back, tripping over his own feet when he tried to both run and turn at the same time. He didn't see the flash of silver claws that tore through his back with the same ease they'd bisected the door.

* * *

Brilliant light flooded the control center. The Professor studied the monitors, anxiety whispered like poison inside his chest. Alarms continued bleating like lost sheep while his glacial gaze studied the bloody form of X, who was carving guards into pieces without hesitation. Spider thin fingers hissed over the keyboard, but every command he tried was denied. He'd been locked out of the system. Desperate fury demanded he shout, throw things, and rave. Betrayal was bitter iron on his tongue while he controlled the irrational emotion and focused on cutting a back door into the program to regain control.

"Damn him," he cursed when his attempts failed. If he had a few days or even a few hours, the Professor could defeat the lockdown that had swept the system via an outside source. A source the Professor was sure had a name.  _The Director,_  his mind hissed when yet another command failed.

The Professor's paranoia had him scouting the room for the smallest shadow, even though IX had never set foot in his inner sanctum. It wouldn't do to have that one appear without warning. Bad enough that the weapon was nearly impossible to track on the surveillance cameras, at least X was easy to follow. It was only then he realized the blood soaked menace was headed straight for his section of the compound, cutting down any that stood in his way.

"Cutler, take it down!" The Professor lost his haughty tone, and now panic gave his voice a raw edge the guards had never heard before. The sound of it over the loud speakers made them cringe in their boots and hold their guns closer. For the man to sound like that meant things had gone from bad to much, much worse.

* * *

"Huh...Immmup...ugh," Dr. Cornelius groaned when the sudden sound of alarms got tangled in vague dreams of his wife and waking up to that horrible racket. He never knew where she'd found the darn thing, but it was loud enough to wake the dead, and boy did she need it. Nothing short of the house falling down could wake his beloved. He swam up through the thick fog of sleep and memory returned. His dear wife had no need for obnoxious alarms, indeed she needed nothing at all.

Pain was old friend, clenching his heart. It was as intense, and bitter as the day it was carved into his soul. The idiot who said time healed all wounds had never loved, that much was obvious. It took another endless minutes for the soul deep pain to release him enough to realize he was still hearing alarms. Then ice of terror guttered the flames of agony, and his heart shriveled with dread.

At first he was afraid he might be having a heart attack, and perhaps that would have been a kindness because he'd only ever heard those alarms once before. When X went berserk and began killing everyone.  _That can't possibly be the case here, the weapon is completely under our control. It can't just...decide on its own to start killing people who haven't been programmed as targets,_  his mind gibbered. Maybe it was a fire, or hell a flood, or some other disaster that had nothing to do with unkillable weapons. Perhaps the Americans had learned of the facility and were attacking.  _If so I pity them, no matter how good they think they are, no one can stand against IX and X when they work in tandem._

The scientific part of his brain pointed out that if it was the Americans, this was an unprecedented chance for them to observe the weapons in a true combat situation instead of the mock battles they'd been creating. Even when they used real soldiers, and where the Professor had gotten a contingent of soldiers willing to throw their lives away like that Cornelius would never know, it wasn't the same as live combat. The tests were still in a controlled environment.  _I hope that the recording equipment is in order,_ the portly doctor thought; his cheeks puffing while he threw on his clothes.

Excitement overrode caution, and he opened the door before hustling out. He wanted to make it to the observation deck before the Americans beached the facility.  _Shink._

A harsh woof tore from the doctor's throat when an adamantium clawed fist slammed into his gut with enough force to drive the unbreakable metal knuckle deep into the unsuspecting doctor. Startled, pain filled eyes stared into alien brown. Nothing human looked back when the claws slashed outwards, spilling the good doctor's innards like a bowl of forgotten spaghetti.

"N-not me...the Americas," Cornelius sputtered, toppling over. Time slowed as he fell, and he barely felt his body impact with the hard ground.  _Soon...I'll be seeing you again soon my lov-_ The blades lashed out again, cleaving the man's head from his shoulders in a vicious swipe. Had the doctor looked up, he would have seen the sharp gleam of something more than animal in those murky brown depths.

* * *

"Doctor," the empty voice froze Dr. Hendry where he stood. A micro-drive containing vital data from both projects fell from his loose grip when a blade sank into his flesh just deep enough to flirt with his kidney.  _A warning,_  he realized, painful but not immediately life threatening. Reluctant approval colored the doctor's thoughts. It was a brilliant way to get someone of his experiences attention. The threat wouldn't have been as effective on someone who wasn't so intimately familiar with the human anatomy.

"What can I do for you, IX?" Dr. Hendry said in a strained, even tone. He sounded like a doctor giving a checkup, than a man with a knife nudging his vital organs. The blade remained steady, neither penetrating further, nor retracting. Again, the doctor had a morbid sense of pride. While X was a fine experiment, IX was his greatest accomplishment. He'd taken a shattered child and turned it into the perfect killer. One who had no qualms in killing anyone, even his own creator.

"I want everything pertaining to subject IX on file. All the records, experiment data, tissue samples, DNA, everything," the cool voice replied. It was curious the weapon referred to himself in the third person, no that wasn't correct. He didn't refer to himself as a person at all. The new insight was too late to explore in detail, and even though his death was assured, the only regret Dr. Hendry felt was that he wouldn't be able to see the project through to completion. After all the test and experiments, the doctor knew they'd only scratched the surface of what IX was capable of. The others might believe they'd seen everything the subject could do, but Hendry wasn't fooled. IX's potential was limitless, and not being there to see him reach his full potential was a bitter pill to swallow.

Careful not to move less he drive the blade deeper and inadvertently end his life before the time was right, Dr Hendry agreed. He hissed when the blade slid free of his flesh, leaving a warm trickle of blood in its wake. The doctor slumped, and the harp wire tension that had held him still snapped. "Move," the arctic voice commanded. Stumbling, Hendry did as he was told and began gathering all of the physical proof of IX's existence.

While he shuffled around the lab putting everything in a heap on the exam table that had once held a tiny battered child, IX's fingers darted over the keyboard of the primary computer. Codes were fed into his mind, and his fingers slid skillfully over the keys. He obeyed the commands, cutting a hole in the firewall for a nasty little virus that would destroy any and all documentation pertaining to weapon IX. Including all video feed that had captured his image from every computer in the complex. Once the virus was uploaded successfully, IX's emerald gaze returned to Dr. Hendry.

The small mountain of files, test tubes, vials, petri dishes, and assorted odds and ends was impressive. The doctor stood to one side, his hand clamped over the wound. He hadn't attempted to run when the chance presented itself. The faint echoing screams keening over the ever present silence convinced him that IX wasn't the only weapon that had broken free of their control.  _Or have they?_ The doctor wondered. Why would IX care about eliminating proof of his existence? The weapons shouldn't have been capable of defying orders at this point.  _Which means they are following orders, just not ours._

He almost laughed. Pride was a dangerous beast because it blinded a man to the world around him, and blinded him to how expendable he was.

"Is this everything?" The empty voice snapped his wandering attention back to the precarious situation that had taken hold of the facility. It was difficult, even with death so near he could almost taste it, to keep his mind from wandering. How strange that the last time this situation occurred, he'd risked his life to save the one now threatening it. The irony wasn't lost on him.  _And like the mad scientists of old, our creation rose up to destroy us in turn, just as humans rose up against the gods._

He could feel the cold energy lick almost teasingly at his throat, and knew lying would earn him a most unpleasant death.

"Yes."

The word was cut off when the small blade sang through the air and found its target, severing the man's spinal cord and giving him a clean death. IX ignored the soft thump of the body hitting the ground as he turned his attention to the pile on the table. Poisonous green eyes locked on the offering and something sparked in their depths. Warmth tingled through his mind, and his sharp gaze narrowed.

With a small puff, the pile roared to life. Wicked flames danced along the paper growing and feasting on the offering, leaving utter destruction in their wake. IX stood still cold granite, giving the fire his full concentration. Bringing them to life was effortless, like breathing. But keeping them contained was a painful endeavor. They fought him, wanting to live and grow until they consumed the world. The fire roared in displeasure when he limited it to the table, but IX's will was stronger, and he crushed the hungry flames into submission.

* * *

"Alright men, there's only one way to stop the beast. We have to overpower him physically." Cutler told the assembly of guards. Déjà  _vu_ tickled through in his mind while he rallied the men for one desperate run against X. This time he didn't bother with wasting men in an attempt to gun the creature down, he'd learned long ago that bullets were pointless when dealing with X. All they did was enrage the creature and resulted in a lot of body parts being thrown about.

"Fuck that!" One of the men in the back shouted. The assembly growled in agreement. "We heard this story before Cut, and it didn't end so well for the other guards now did it!?" Another voice added. More shouted against the plan until the yelling became a mass of noise. Cutler attempted to yell over them, to regain control, but it was too late. They were spooked, and one too many elaborate stories about the night that X went crazy had done their work.

The scream of metal on metal silenced the horde more effectively than Cutler ever could, and as X tore his way into the room, attracted by all the shouting, panic gripped the men.

"Aww, to hell with this. I'm getting outta here!" The words spurned the guards on, and they scattered. Weapon X plowed into the mass like a bull let lose in a crowded street. One of the men shoved Cutler in the path of the snarling beast while trying to escape. Before he could raise his gun, as useless as the motion would have been, adamantium claws descended with unstoppable force and cut through flesh, bone and brain as effortlessly as a spork through jello, slicing his head into four pieces.

Everything froze when the body fell, held suspended in time as the man who'd been the one of the only survivors against Weapon X's last run was cut down. The men couldn't believe what they were seeing, Cutler, who'd been nearly the only survivor of the last great altercation between the full contingent of guards and weapon X, was dead. Pandemonium overtook the room while men fought each other to get away from the beast, to get to the door, to just get away.

A blood thirsty snarl that was eerily reminiscent of a grin burned on the weapon's blood spattered face. He waded into the herd of sheep, his crimson stained claws left devastation in their wake, sending body parts flying in a spray of living rain. The crescendo of screams was deafening, and more than a few guards were killed not by the beast, but by being trampled underfoot by their own. Those who made it out of the cramped room scattered to all corners of the facility in their maddened bid to escape.

* * *

Franks wasn't sure how long he ran before the panic released him enough for rational thought to return. Things had gone so wrong so fast that he could feel the soft buzz of shock trying to suck him under.  _I'm still alive, as long as I keep my head I can get out of this. Oh God, Cutler's dead._  That thought continued to gnaw at his resolve like a starved rat feasting on the innards of a dead cat. Cut was dead, and the rest of the guards were as good as.  _Damned cowards, now X can pick us off one by one at his leisure_. He knew any chance they had at regaining control of the situation died with Cutler. Now it was survival of the fittest, and praying to God that he could survive the cat and mouse game long enough for help to arrive.

The smell of smoke slapped him back into the present, and a half baked plan of cutting through a smoke filled room to hide his scent drove him towards the scent instead of away. Everyone who worked with X knew it hunted based off scent. If he made his smoky, perhaps that would make him less of a target. It would take the creature hours to track down the rest of the scattered guards. By then, the Professor would have called for help.  _Just gotta hold on till they arrive, that's all._

When he shoved the door to the medical ward open, Franks froze. Standing not five feet away was IX, staring intently at the examination table where flames danced on the bare metal. Terror rooted him to the spot. After half a minute of still breathing and remaining upright, Franks was able to get his shaky mind back on track. The fire, the fire was important.  _YES! He can only focus on the fire to control it!_  It took nearly three tries for him to unstrap the tranquilizer gun, every tiny movement made his heart beat erratically, waiting for the weapon to notice his presence and kill him.

The flames shrank, and Franks jerked the gun up when panic won the battle. The shot went wide, skimming just past the Weapon's left ear, so close his unruly black locks rustled in the wind of its passage. Deadly green eyes locked on him, their gaze held him paralyzed for the blade that buried itself in his left eye.

* * *

The Professor paced the confines of his haven turned hell. Once, when he was a boy, he saw a man put a tiny fish in a bottle and cork the top. Then, the bottle was tossed into a tank with an octopus. He watched those slimy arms feel out the seemingly impenetrable bottle before plucking the cork free, reaching in and snatching the little fish when it should have been safe. Perhaps this was how the fish felt, watching the arms close around the bottle. The Professor thought morbidly, drawn again to the screens, and the blood tide that was overtaking the facility.

Ten minutes ago, the first guards had reached the elevators that should have taken them to the surface and the illusion of freedom, but the doors had been sealed. The doors to the stairs likewise refused to yield to the desperate men, and like rats in a maze they now fled up and down halls in an attempt to outrun the snake among them.  _The Director thought this out well,_ bitterness, as sharp and unforgiving as arsenic, colored his thoughts while he made another restless circuit of the room. There was no point in leaving, no exit would open and help wasn't coming.

He continued to pace as plans were formulated and discarded. For the love of God, he was brilliant! There had to be  _something,_  some way out of this disaster, some way to survive the unsurvivable. He needed more time.

The Professor went ridged, his lanky form stiffening to the point of pain when metal squealed against metal. Time was up.

* * *

Panic did not touch his placid green gaze when the momentary distraction allowed the demon flames to roar up and engulf half the room in the blink of an eye. He turned away from the corpse to refocus his iron clad attention on the fire. His bottle colored eyes narrowed, and he slammed his power down on the out of control blaze in one savage thrust. The fire was snuffed out with apparent ease like the candles of a child's birthday cake. IX turned on his heel and vanished into the newly born shadows.

The three savage blades came down in a powerful arc that would have cleaved any other in half. IX's own dagger came up, clashing not against the descending blades but the heavy wrist. It only took three sparring sessions for IX to realize the best way to deflect the deadly weapons was to target not the blades themselves, which no other weapon could stand against, but to stop them at a different point. A low grunt escaped him before he managed to turn the blow aside.

The familiar grind of metal against adamantium sheathed bone was enough to pull X out of the blood haze. IX didn't back down when he felt the prick of blades against his stomach, the death blow halted mid-motion when the smaller weapon's scent penetrated the blood lust.  _Shink_ , the blades returned to their fleshin sheaths. X grabbed IX, jerking him up to bury his nose against the young man's throat. Without fear, IX hung limply in the predator's unbreakable grip. The low rumble of X's approval was accompanied by the sting of teeth sinking into his shoulder while X renewed his mark. IX had learned over the course of their training that it was easier to permit the beast of a man this small thing than to be fought to a standstill and have it done anyway. Even his magic was beginning to yield to the incessant markings, each time it took the scars longer to fade.

"Enough, there is work yet to be done. Lead me to the Professor."

A soft tongue lapped one last time at the rich wine that made the blood of the guards and scientists taste like water in comparison. The jolting, power rich flow was nearly intoxicating and had become addictive to the predator after that first taste. He took every opportunity the younger male gave him to steal a taste and to feel that small but hard lined body pressed against his chest while he indulged. His little mate no longer fought him in those moments, but his tantalizing scent remained painfully free of lust. With one last swipe he released his hold, allowing IX to fall gracefully to the floor.

Without looking back, X prowled forward, tracing the familiar scent of the Professor to his hiding hole. Bodies littered the corridors as they stalked their prey, and the slightest twitch or groan earned the few who weren't quite dead a swift decapitation.

* * *

Mike was never the bravest, the strongest, or the fastest. He often wondered what the hell he'd been thinking when he'd joined the army, and anyone who knew him had wondered the same. In truth, it had been a rather foolish moment of masochism, perhaps the only one he'd ever had. A bit too much vodka coupled with a sadistic recruiting officer sealed his fate. Anyone else would have taken one look at the drunken coward and sent him on his way with a sneer and a boot to the ass for good measure. But, not that one, oh no, he let Mike sign up and grinned all the while, thinking that a stint with the army would be a fine price to pay for being an idiot. After all, the army could always use a bit of cannon fodder.

If there was a god of luck, then he favored Mike, who should have been killed half a dozen times over the past two years. He survived, and it wasn't due to skill, but an innate sense of when to run and when to hide. Getting on at the labs had been a godsend. He wasn't high up enough to deal with any of the crazy stuff that he'd only overheard in hushed whispers, the pay was amazing, and the work was easy if mundane. Best of all, no one was shooting at him, and he didn't have to shoot anyone else. For an army job, it was a little slice of heaven.

Or so he'd thought. Mike gagged as he pulled the half shredded corpse over his upper body. The doors were sealed, and there was no way out of this bloody hell hole, so he had to hide. Playing dead was the only idea that seemed to have even a snowflake's chance in hell of working. It was the smell that was his undoing. That putrid cross between a slaughter house and an outhouse that only a messy death left behind. He couldn't stop the dry heave that wracked his body when a slimy piece of dead guard landed on his lips.

The macabre sight of the dead corpse jostling up and down attracted X's attention while they moved down the hallway with steps silent enough that the cowardly guard hadn't heard the danger. A shrill screech of animal terror cut the silence of the hall when X tore the body away, revealing the whole guard underneath. X's teeth were bared in a savage grin, and with an almost playful swat the guard's left arm parted ways with his body in a violent spray of blood. The limb thumped to the ground, twitching in confusion from the sudden disconnect. If possible, the screams increased in pitch as the wounded man scrambled to his feet, slid on the gore soaked floor, and stumbled into a lurching run down the hall.

Before X could continue his play, the screams were cut off, and the man collapsed, a blade lodged in his back. "We don't have time for this. IX said coldly when X turned to growl at him for taking his kill. A single poisoned green stare was enough to make X huff and return to the task at hand. It didn't take long for the killer to find the Professor's den, and without needing further instruction, his claws carved a door in the Professor's inner sanctum.

* * *

Those fearsome claws shredded what should have been an impenetrable door.  _But damn it all, not against him, not our perfect unstoppable weapon._ The Professor thought hysterically as he backed himself into a corner. It was IX who stepped into the room first, and a small glimmer of hope jolted him.  _The code! If I regain control of IX, I'll have both of them. Then I can unleash my creations on the Director and see that bastard squirm when they hunt him to the ends of the Earth!_  But it had been months, and terror clouded his normally clear thought processes. Numbers cascaded through his mind, from his first locker number to his grandparents' phone number, but none were the code that could save him.

"IX...Y-you can't do this! I created you, you have to lis-" his begging was silenced by terror when IX stepped aside with a look of scathing indifference. X took his place and those terrible dark eyes burned holes into his soul. They were the eyes of death, the eyes of bitter retribution that would never hold mercy. The beast was everything they had hoped and more, and he was the death of them all.

Hot warmth spread over the front of his trousers, and it wasn't until those nightmarish claws sank into his midsection, purposefully missing vital organs, that he realized he'd wet himself.

IX ignored the shill rabbit like screams of the Professor as he began searching every inch of the room for documentation of his existence. The thick meaty sound of flesh being cut from bone didn't faze him while he worked. Finally, the annoying noise ceased when the wounds became to grave to survive, and still X continued to maul the body until the metallic scent of blood was replaced by the heavy aroma of ground meat. It didn't take long for the Professor to be reduced to scraps of flesh and shattered bone.

"Go, hunt down any who still breathe. Terminate all remaining personnel," IX commanded after X was done playing with his kill. A low growl met his demand, and a powerful hand ghosted over IX's shoulders. The touch left a long streak of blood behind before the large mutant stalked out of the room, leaving IX to deal with the task he'd been given.

* * *

It took over eight hours to clear the facility. Everyone from the scientists to the few remaining prisoners in their cells had been eliminated and all proof of IX's existence destroyed.

"Mission compete." IX said, activating the communication nano-technology with a thought.

" _Leave the compound and wait in the surrounding forest. Field testing of weapon X will begin after the targets are in position. Do not interfere with the testing, observe and report. Further instruction to follow,"_ the voice of his wielder crackled through his mind.

"Yes sir," he replied, before vanishing into the shadows to locate X and vacate the Hive.


	7. Obsolete

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well faithful readers I just wanted to let you know we made it through the first book! Yay! This chapter marks the beginning of our journey through Marc Cerasini's second book Wolverine: Violent Tendencies. After that, we'll venture into no man's land in between for a while before entering the realm of X-Men Origins, the movie. I'm glad that everyone's stuck with me so far. Like the first book I will change things around to suit my story, and again this is very much AU. Don't worry, the actual X-Men will be a part of this story but that will come later.

"Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, art…It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival" – C.S. Lewis

* * *

"Sir, satellite KS-2 is now in position," the mechanical Voice interrupted the Director's thoughts. It took over three hours for the incident to be reported, and the Director was already reviewing protocol. Had the weapons broken loose on their own, that three hours was an unacceptable amount of time to remain uninformed.  _This exercise revealed a number of troubling things that need to be addressed._  He thought, studying the image of tree thick mountains, deep shadowed valleys, and a meandering half frozen stream tinged green from the night vision feed that appeared on the screen.

"Center on the target, magnify fifty times and switch to spectrometer," the Director said as he steepled his fingers and studied the refined image. Silvery bones glittered out of the x-ray bathed image while the man climbed up a steep snow slick trail carved into the side of the mountain. The figure paused, a smaller shape, its bones a dull gray in comparison, stumbled. With surprising speed, the larger reached out and pulled the smaller onto its back. The pace of the traveling pair increased, before the image broke up and went black.

"The satellite is out of range, sir. We will be able to pick them up again in forty-three minutes, once KS-5 is repositioned over the Rocky Mountains. I will calculate where Weapon X should be, based on its current trajectory."

"That's them," satisfaction colored his words, matching the smug smile that pulled at age wrinkled lips.

"Yes Director. That was real time surveillance of Weapons IX and X, loose in the Canadian Wilderness, the evidence is irrefutable," the disembodied Voice confirmed.

"Activate the crisis center and notify all personnel of Department K that until further notice, all other projects are to be put on hold. All of the Department's recourses will be utilized to monitor, record, and analyze the movements and activities of Weapon X," the Director commanded.

"Only to observe, Sir? Shouldn't we be attempting to capture it? What of Weapon IX?"

"IX is not important at the moment, Weapon X is our primary concern."  _And I know what IX can do, but the military doesn't need to know of its existence, all they need to see is what X can do,_ he added silently. He would give the military their little toy once he learned everything the weapon had to offer, but IX was a pet project that he had no intention of handing over to the military.

"How efficient is our surveillance of that area?" The Director asked, reviewing the first field reports of what the pair had done in the Hive. A thin smile curved his lips at the report. His weapons had performed beautifully, and the structural damage was minimal. Once the mess was cleared away, the facility wouldn't be difficult to repair.  _Far less destructive than any bomb, or platoon of gun toting soldiers._

"Using all six surveillance satellites controlled by Department K, we will be able to monitor the subject's movements seventy percent of the time. The loss of the weapons will have a major impact on our funding, sir. Our resources will be strained to the limit recapturing them," the Voice offered. Weapon X had cost the department nearly ninety-billion U.S dollars to forge, and those dollars had come directly from the military. Having lost control of the weapon was going cost them dearly.

The Director stroked his chin, looking for all the world like a man deep in thought. "The Department will have to cut expenses to meet the demand. Where is the largest drain on the Department's budget?" The Director questioned, a sly smirk on his lips.

"It appears that the Ubermensch Project is nearly three hundred percent over budget. Professor Philips and Doctor Wylie have been conducting experiments in regards to recreating the Super-Soldier Serum based on notes left by-"

"I'm not interested in ongoing research expenses," the Director said, waving his hand impatiently. "What area has the largest operational expense?"

"It would appear that CCRC Unit at Shroud Lake Ontario is the largest drain on our recourses at the moment, sir," the Voice declared, "formerly known as the Weapon Null program."

"Hmm, yes. I thought as much." the Director replied, pulling pulled up a file on the discontinued Null program. Grotesque images appeared on the screen, and he scrolled through them, giving each a jaundiced look.  _The lengths some will go in the name of continuing a pitiful existence, foolish, but they will have one last use._ "Weapon Null is now reinstated. Notify the Matron that her team is to be on site and within striking distance of Weapon X within twenty-four hours."

"But, Sir-"

"Enough, assign Dr. Vigil as our liaison to the Matron. That woman can be rather difficult to handle, and I suspect that the Doctor's unique handicap will appeal to her. After all, the Matron does have a fondness for freaks. I will be coordinating the specifics with the Canadian Air Force," the Director announced, running his fingers though ash white hair. His blue eyes were distant, considering all the possibilities.

"I will inform Dr. Vigil immediately, but I'm still not certain that such an expensive and hasty deployment is the proper move at this point in time," the Voice stated.

"Oh but there is a point, my friend. The Matron's collection of ill fated freaks will face off against Weapon X one at a time, following my rules of engagement. This will be the field test of Weapon X's true capabilities, and we will monitor and record the battles for further evaluation." Another predatory smirk curled his thin lips.

"But, Sir! Surly you realize that the outdated weapons of the Null Program stand no chance against a creation as advanced as Weapon X?" The Voice questioned.

"Precisely," the Director said, his icy blue eyes glittered with malice. "I am certain that Weapon X will eliminate those prior test subjects, which will cut the Department's operating costs in half."

"That…sir with all do respect, wouldn't…wouldn't that be the same as murder?"

The Director's eye brow quirked as he suppressed another smirk. "I see it as an efficient use of resources, wouldn't you agree?"

* * *

IX rested his head on X's broad shoulder while he clung to the larger man's back like a young monkey. This was the first time he'd been outside of the underground facility, and none of the testing prepared the Weapons for what it would be like to transverse rough terrain together. The biggest difficult was the most obvious and also the most impossible to correct. X's legs were far longer than IX, and for every step the larger Weapon took, IX had to take three.

It didn't help that X had fallen into the easy ground eating trot favored by soldiers and hunting wolves. The lope was one that could be kept up for hours, and though the memories of long years of service in too many armies to count had been lost, his body remembered the energy saving stride as easily as it recalled breathing.

That was just one of many things that scientists, no matter how clever they thought they were, hadn't added to the programming, because they'd never been forced to endure days of marching. Miles passed as IX jogged to keep up. His wiry muscles burned while he forced them to keep pace with X, never complaining or demanding to go slower. He would endure, like he had been trained to.

X could hear his little mate panting at his side, and a low rumble rose in his chest when the sweet scent of IX's sweat slicked body teased him with every shift of the wind. The path began to climb, and when IX stumbled for the third time, X ignored the breathy monotone "I'm fine," and quick as a striking serpent, he reached out and pulled IX off his feet and tossed him over his shoulders. As if they'd done it a thousand times, IX's arms slithered around his thick neck, and the slight weight settled against his back.

"Just for a while." IX murmured, suppressing a comfortable sigh when heat began soaking into him from the broad back. X's pace increased now that he wasn't limited to IX's shorter stride, and the rhythmic steps lulled the short weapon into a light sleep.

Night had not yet faded into morning when X slowed. The trails had become heavy with the stink of humanity, and X realized that the path led directly to a settlement. Steep mountains made leaving the trail treacherous, and the slightly heavier weight of his sleeping mate kept his feet on the path. Darkness hid his stalking form when a collection of rough wooden cabins came into view. The tiny settlement was nestled in a small valley, cut off from the rest of civilization. Wood smoke hung wrath like in the air from simple fireplaces, and the lingering stench of outhouses caused his nose to wrinkle.

IX stirred against him when his pace shifted out of the lope and into a silent predatory glide. The smaller weapon's sense of smell was only as keen as an average human's, but even he was alerted by the out of place odors. Emerald eyes blinked open and his slender body tensed at the unexpected sight of the small settlement.  _This isn't supposed to be here._ His gaze narrowed when they passed the shabby hand built cabins. Silent as the wind, X ghosted through the center of the establishment.

* * *

Most of the inhabitants of the hermit camp known only as Second Chance were a collection of miscreants, out casts, and drifters who for one reason or another had cast off the shackles of modern society found themselves here, far from the stress and convenience of the so called real world. The small hovels were dark, their fires banked, and doors barred. The residents slept on, unaware of the threat that stalked past their make shift homes.

Sleep proved elusive for one resident. Thomas Swimming Horse snarled inarticulately before he hurtled a mason jar full of moonshine at the wall. The jar shattered with explosive force as the tall Native American lurched to his feet. With exaggerated care, he laid the book,  _Decline of the West_  by Oswald Spengler on the table. As much as it pained him not to shred the cursed thing into a million pieces, he knew that the Librarian would cut him off for good if he destroyed another book.  _You would think I kicked a puppy when I told him that I'd thrown_ The Collected Works of Jean-Paul Sartre _into the fire._

It wasn't that Thomas hated books; it was the opposite. He had read countless books in the five years since he'd left the army and become a drifter before ending up here, in this strange little town of misfits. Most of the books he'd read were by the so called great minds of both Eastern and Western philosophy and varied from heartbreakingly optimistic to soul crushing pessimism. But none of them seemed to match the world he lived in. That was the reason he'd left the reservation to begin with, even though he was the son of the chief and in line to take over the tribe. He simply wasn't inspired by the traditions and rituals of his people, they left him feeling empty.

In an effort to find something, anything to fill that ache, that need for a purpose, Thomas left the small world of the tribe when he'd come of age and ventured out into the wider world to see if what he sought could be found there. At first, Thomas had meandered through the country. He'd stopped for a short time in a commune in the Northwest, traveled down to the sunny state of California and lived on the beach for a time before he signing up for the military. There he'd been a good soldier and had signed up willingly for combat duty. It wasn't patriotism that motivated him, no it was the adrenalin rush. Thomas had no patriotism to speak of, and after one too many drinks he would admit he found modern America just as baffling and meaningless as his own culture. He knew it wasn't the cultures fault. His lack of belief had more to do with his own problem, than the world outside of himself.

A headache thrummed behind his eyes, and he swayed on his feet. The stink of burnt wood and alcohol seemed to choke him, and the walls tried to close in on him. With a low grunt, he shoved open the door and stumbled out into the ice laced night air. The first blast of cold helped clear the haze caused by the moonshine from his mind. Movement caught his blurred gaze, and he reached behind him for the riffle that always leaned against the wall beside the door. He pointed the weapon, peering into the darkness for whatever caught his eye. It was probably some animal, a wolf, or a raccoon, perhaps a wolverine.

He stumbled back when the shadow shifted again, revealing something that wasn't a mere animal. Some large hulking shape that walked on two legs and moved to easily to be a bear. The manlike shape froze and turned as if returning his stare before it moved on, vanishing into the darker shadows of the night like a restless spirit.

Thomas gave the forest beyond his small cabin a long hard look, but the shape had gone. Shaking himself like a disgruntled dog after a bath he turned and slammed the door shut, but this time he barred the heavy wood behind him.

* * *

X froze when the sound of shattering glass pierced the night, followed by the harsh stench of alcohol. They'd just passed the last cabin of the establishment when the door opened, catching them in the edge of the fire light. For an instant weapons and civilian froze as they locked eyes. IX shifted, his hand reaching for one of the small throwing blades to neutralize the threat when X turned and fell again into the easy lope, sparing the civilian and leaving the small town behind.

"Why?" IX questioned, but received expected silence in reply. That was one of the greatest challenges when working with X, the lack of communication. The bond they'd developed in training was mostly intuitive, with IX giving orders and X obeying them. But, now and again there would be times like this, where X inexplicably took charge. In those moments IX relinquished power and followed instead of led. It was something none of the soldiers could understand, how one could just give up command to a supposed subordinate without damaging the balance of power.

_It was for the best, an unexplained body could rile up the locals and I doubt they are part of the field test._  IX decided while X began to scale the steep mountain. The trail they'd been following narrowed until it was little more than a goat track, but X's feet never faltered. They were three kilometers from the settlement when the storm began. Heavy snow, and driving wind tried to peel them off the mountainside, and IX clung with stoic determination to X's back even when his own tiny frame began to shake from the bitter cold. He may have been designed for killing, but he hadn't been built to survive such harsh conditions without the proper gear.

X could feel the bone deep trembling against his back and knew that even though the weather was no difficulty for him, IX was not as able to handle the bitter cold. Through the swirling snow, his predatory gaze caught on a darker patch among the shattered rocks of the summit. The opening was small, almost invisible, nestled as it was between two large boulders, but the faint scent of large cat guided him into the cave. It was perhaps as large as a small hut, but most importantly, it was out of the fierce weather.

The lingering scent of mountain lion was old enough to insure the creature had abandoned this den and once X was satisfied the area was safe he pulled IX's trembling form off his back and sat. With gentle hands, he curling the smaller male up in his lap, offering himself up as a blanket.

IX didn't struggle against the grip that folded him into a defenseless ball. The heat radiating off of X's bare skin, the weapon still only wore a ragged pair of jeans, was incentive enough to remain where he was. "Guard." IX murmured before he allowing himself melt into the offered warmth. He knew X would remain awake and alert until IX released him from the command. With the much larger male watching, he let exhausted sleep pull him under.

* * *

Dr. Vigil's eyes slid shut, hiding the blank red lenses. The deep drone of the helicopters fed the headache that thudded in time with the churning blades. It was impossible to sleep, but closing her eyes gave her a chance to rest from one pain at least, and review the initial meeting with the Matron and her…team. She suppressed a shutter, recalling her arrival at the CCRC and meeting Lieutenant Frank Benteen, or at least what was left of the man.

The brain, incased in a glass container about the size of an elevator compartment attached to monorail system high above the actual loading docks, had floated in a bubbling pale pink fluid. Long tendrils of what she later learned were nerve endings flowed branch like from the nerve cluster that had once been housed in a spinal column, each connected to a circuit. This permitted the brain, she couldn't bring herself to think of that thing as a man, to control its housing unit, speak, see, and in a limited way interact with its surroundings. Lieutenant Benteen was the head of operations and security for the facility, and Dr. Vigil was glad that it wouldn't be accompanying them on their journey.

The Matron had shown a great deal of interest in her artificial eyes. The digital optics system was able to interface using electronics to connect with her retina, optic nerve, thalamus, and cortex. The optics returned her sight after it had been lost in a meaningless bombing; part of a political stunt by a bunch of radicals protesting the army. When the Director came to her offering her the gift of sight, Megan jumped at the offer. She was only twenty-three, and the thought of living the rest of her life in the dark terrified the college student. But, the amount of pain she'd suffered, the many surgeries and the drugs she still had to take to keep her body from rejecting the optics destroyed her health. The once active young woman was now waif thin, and while there were areas where her new eyes were superior to her old ones, there were limitations as well. For example, they couldn't view computer screens, or any electronic screen for that matter. When she looked at them, all she saw were blurs of rainbow color.

_I am not like the Matron's freaks,_  she thought, recalling the brain with a clarity she hoped would soon fade. The information she'd been provided on the other members of the team promised to provide fodder for future nightmares. People who sacrificed their humanity in a mad bid for survival. People whose flesh was melded with their weaponry to create super soldiers, to create monsters.  _I'm nothing like they are_.

"Have you finished reviewing the personnel files, Dr. Vigil?" the Matron's voice brought her out of her thoughts, and she opened her eyes to see the woman taking a seat uninvited next to her. The large double bladed Chinook's interior was reduced by the long cylinders containing the cryogenically frozen members of Team Null.

"Must they be transported like that? We could be using this time to strategize about the upcoming mission." Dr. Vigil said, her gaze turned away from the long shapes that looked too much like caskets for comfort.

"My team doesn't require such briefing, Doctor. When the time is right, they will know what to do." A smile lit the older woman's face, taking years off her appearance. "In fact, I'm pleased that we've been given this opportunity to demonstrate the usefulness of the team. The Null Program has been disregarded for far too long. When my team brings in the rouge weapon, the Director will see which is superior."

"If the team means so much to you, than why all of this?" She gestured to the containers. "Why not permit them to move about freely?"

"Doctor, when thinking of the Null team, you mustn't think of them as just any other unit of soldiers. They are more like high precision interments of war, similar to nuclear submarines, and fighter jets. These instruments require many hours of man power and maintenance for every single hour of active combat. The same is true of my unit," the Matron sighed, reaching out to stroke one of the units. "You see Doctor, maintaining my people is not without cost. The drugs alone are millions of dollars, by consenting to deactivation while not in combat, my department has managed to cut costs considerably. I'm sure the Director appreciates our efforts, and the team understands the necessity of it," she finished.

Megan's eyes returned to the files on her lap. From what she'd read, she imagined how the…the creatures would look. Human flesh twisted and fused with technology, weapons grafted into bodies like some sort of macabre Hieronymus Bosch painting. Nothing more than a ghastly caricature of science fiction horror creations.

"I see. But, some of these…modifications appear to be rather extreme, I mean the aesthetic impact alone is-"

"You're saying their ugly. Don't judge them too harshly. After all, military technology has never been designed to please the eye, simply to be effective. But, theirs is a fearful symmetry, and if you're able to look beyond the grotesque technology and the brutal reshaping of their bodies you might also recognize their splendor."

* * *

Thomas knelt, examining the slight dip in the newly fallen snow. The storm obliterated almost all traces of the stranger he'd seen the night before, but old lessons taught in his boyhood and honed in the military served him well. The few traces that remained did not escape his keen eye. He stopped and looked up the steep trail cut along the side of the mountain. A weathered glance at the sun told him he'd need to turn back soon. Even his mountain warfare training wouldn't be enough to save him if another storm blew up at this point.

_Just a bit further,_ he decided. Even though he'd been chasing after the stranger all afternoon, the promise of fresh meat also factored into his quest. Curiosity led him into the forest that morning, but he'd also kept an eye out for deer, something more than a stringy rabbit. It had been a while since he had a good bit of venison.

When he'd returned the books to the Librarian that morning, he'd told the old man about the half naked stranger he'd seen last night. The story wasn't believed, after all the temperature had been in the negatives. Surviving those temperatures without the proper gear was impossible. He grumbled under his breath at the memory before spitting on the ground. Thomas knew what he saw, he hadn't been mistaken or delusional. Their scorn spurned his curiosity all the more, which guided him out into the wilderness.

Thomas cursed when the trail doubled back yet again. Whoever the stranger was, he was wise to the ways of trackers. Throughout the day, he'd noticed how the trail would leave the path, lay false trails, double back on his own tracks and even transverse stretches of bare cliff in an effort to avoid leaving a clear path in the snow. His quarry was good, but Thomas wasn't about to be defeated. No, this Brave wouldn't lose a trail, even if the stranger always seemed to take the most difficult path.

_Now doesn't that sound familiar?_  Thomas thought, remembering his grandfather's age roughened words.  _A sly horse runs, and a smiling fish swims, this is why our grandmothers named us the Swimming Horse people Thomas, because we always choose the most difficult path in life._

After stealing another glance at the sun, Thomas debated the merits of continuing the chase, or return home, where a nice bland can of pork and beans and a hot fire waited for him. Decision made, Thomas turned to head back. The abrupt move startled a young fawn hiding among the rocks. The clatter of hooves up the trail, the same direction the stranger had been traveling, caused him to turn and continue up the rough track.  _Its fate, the deer took the same path as the man_.

As he stalked up the trail, Thomas slid the rifle off his shoulder and loaded it. An hour passed while he labored up the steep path. Each time the temptation to turn back grew with the lengthening shadows, the fawn would reappear, but never close enough for a clear shot. The temptation of fresh meat proven stronger than the need to return.

The deer had no choice but to stay on the trail. The steep path was the only safe way to transverse this stretch of mountain. From previous hikes, Thomas knew the path deadened into a ravine. Last winter, a cougar took up residence in a cave not far from there, and Thomas hoped it had moved on. He sped up, if the big cat was still around, he didn't want his prize to be snatched before he could catch it.

He came upon one of the many blind corners in the trail and the deep thrum of hooves on hard stone caused him to freeze. The deer bolted around the corner and jerked to a stop at the sight of the man. Thomas and the deer stood frozen, it's soft white tail flicked nervously and Thomas brought the rifle up.  _It must have scented the cat and bolted, right into the arms of the hunter_ , he thought as he took the shot. The bullet hit the deer square between the eyes, knocking the animal off its feet. It kicked feebly once before falling still.

* * *

Sunlight filtered into the cave, waking IX. A low rumble and the light touch stroking down his spine assured him X was still awake. Stretching, IX climbed out of the comfortable nest of the older male's lap and took stock of their surroundings. The cave was small, but they didn't need much in the way of space. The tight space would hold warmth better.

"We have shelter, we will need to find a reliable source of water, and we need food." IX said, considering what they would require to survive in the wilderness for as long as the testing took to compete. He read between the lines of his orders with practiced ease. While he wasn't permitted to aid X during the tests, he could help him between testing. Even through he hadn't been explicitly ordered to do so, IX knew he was responsible for protecting and tending to X between opponents.

This shelter would serve well in that regard. They wouldn't have much time before the field tests began and IX wanted everything in place before then. But first, "rest," IX commanded. He would guard X's sleep just as the older male guarded his.  _We will not be taken unaware_.

Instead of lying down to sleep, X stood. Sleep could wait, even from here he could hear the rumble of his mate's stomach, and now that IX was no longer cuddled up to his heat, the smaller weapon had begun trembling again as the cold attacked him. When it came to battle, IX was more than able to take care of himself, but in this landscape of ice capped mountains, there was little doubt which of the two was superior. He had to protect IX, and to do that he had to provide for him.

Something in his subconscious stirred sluggishly at the beast's desperate need to see to his mate's welfare. Not quite waking, but a light nudging, a gift of ability that no animal would readily possess. Just like that strange sense told the animal how to move up the trail, directing him to place his feet so, to turn thus and to not step in the snow, it guided him now.

"X?" The word was a mingling of question and demand. Effortlessly, X reached out and snagged IX. Black material was jerked to the side, and X bit down on the silvery scars of his mark, deepening them further. IX gave a low hiss but didn't try to fight the larger weapon. Instead he waited until the teeth released him. The hard edge was replaced by the hot stroke of X's tongue as he bathed the new wound and shuddered at the delicious taste.

X let go after the blood ceased flowing and gave a stern growl to his little mate. Words were unneeded, the message to stay was not difficult to grasp when X turned to leave. IX took a single step to follow, but a second snarl stopped him. He could have retaken control, but this was not his area of expertise. X was tested often in the wilderness around the compound, whereas all of IX's testing had been in the underground labs. It was difficult to yield control, but IX did so out of necessity.

When X stalked out of the cave, IX sat back down. The hard stone floor was insolated by a thick layer of sand, but IX still hugged himself in a vain attempt to ward off the chill. It didn't take long for X to return, his large arms heaped full of wood. The small tree hadn't stood a chance against his claws, and the raw ends of the wood were brilliant white from each precise cut. X let the wood fall in a heap near the back of the cave. IX watched x place smaller sticks in a pile. The soft wind passing through the cave provided natural ventilation, and before IX could spark a bit of magic to light the kindling, X's claws shot out and screeched along the stone wall of the cave. A rain of sparks landed in the small pile, and after a few minutes of huffing and puffing, a merry little fire was heating their small home.

Again, IX was grabbed, but this time he was pushed gently in front of the fire. He gave his own low growl, which only resulted in an amused huff from the large predator, and another light almost teasing nip to the back of his neck. IX was unaccustomed to this side of X. Before, they'd only interacted on the killing field as equals during testing. Aside from that, they were kept in their separate cells while they waited for the next round of scientific experimentation.

Twice more, X returned with loads of wood, until there was a respectable pile in the back of the cave before he vanished again.

* * *

It was difficult to hold on to the subtle nudging when he prowled the woods. Animal instinct demanded he hunt, feed, and simply exist. But, the lingering taste of magic rich blood in his mouth helped him hold on to older instincts that spoke of more than just survival. Instincts that insisted his mate needed more than he did, that it wasn't just his survival that mattered.

Fire was important, fire and… _fresh water_ that strange sense whispered. Growling he moved, falling effortlessly into the ground eating lope with his nostrils flaring to catch the sweet scent of fresh water. It took nearly an hour to find a small stream, and when he bent to drink, he was forced to stop and close his eyes when he was confronted with a new problem. The water was too far for his mate to reach in the cold. Again he was forced to think beyond what he was created to be, and after struggling against his new nature, he managed to carve a rough bucket out of an old log.

Bucket full to the brim with cold mountain water, X returned to the cave. Satisfaction hummed in his chest when he saw IX seated in front of the fire. While he'd been gone, IX had gathered stones from around the cave to create a proper pit for the fire to rest in. In the two hours that X was gone, the fire had consumed the kindling. Now, one of the small logs fed the dancing flames. Another rumble of pleasure escaped him when IX drank the offered water, quenching the thirst that had built in the time the larger male was gone.

Hunger had yet to be tended to, but when he attempted to leave again, IX slender hand reached out and caught his wrist. "No, rest now," he demanded. A small growl, more of a whine, escaped him but the hard look in those polished green orbs showed he wouldn't be dissuaded a second time. With a grunt, he stretched out in front of the fire and plopped his head into IX's lap. Jaded eyes stared down at him for a time before a small hand tangled in his hair. A satisfied sigh escaped him, and he allowed his eyes to shut, content in the knowledge that his mate would guard his sleep.

* * *

When he woke, the day had melted into dusk. Tt would be difficult to find something to eat before darkness fell. It didn't matter, he would hunt all night if needed. Even though IX hadn't spoken up, the soft rumbling of his mate's stomach told its own tale. X gave low growled command to stay before he exited the cave in search of food.

He'd only made it a few feet down the trail when a fawn caught sight of him and bolted. X broke into a fleet footed run after the deer. The loud crack of gun fire sounded just before he rounded the corner. A person knelt over the fallen carcass, and when X appeared, the man looked up. His eyes grew huge at the sight of X stalking forward. With a muffled curse, Thomas stood and tried to back pedal, but his foot caught on a loose rock and he fell.

The yelp of pained surprise when he landed on his tailbone was lost in the loud crack of the rifle. The impact caused his trigger finger to squeeze. The weapon's recoil pulled it out of his startled grasp, sending it skidding down the trail out of reach. Thomas's brown eyes widened in shock when the stranger's head jerked backward in a shower of hot blood. The ruby liquid rained down on his upturned face when the large man fell to one knee, his hands covering the wound.

Thomas held his breath, and waited for the man to collapse. That had to be a fatal wound, but the beast of a man straightened instead. The large beefy hands fell, revealing the gruesome wound in his scalp. Instead of splintered white bone, and grey brain tissue, silvery metal glimmered in the last dying rays of sunlight. He watched in dumb amazement when the flow of blood became a mere trickle before ceasing all together. Before his unbelieving eyes, the wound healed and the glazed look in the stranger's eyes vanished.

Instead, those terrible inhuman eyes locked on him, and with a roar the beast threw his arms wide. The  _shink_  of all six claws being unsheathed almost made the Indian wet himself in terror. "Holy shit!" he croaked before he stumbled backwards over the dead deer. "I'm sorry, I won't hurt you…please!"he cried, holding his empty hands up to show he was unarmed. The beast took another step forward, and in desperation, he kicked the carcass forward. "Here, you want meat it's yours take it," he yelled when his back hit the wall of the ravine. Shaking, he curled up in a ball and waited for the end.

Instead of continuing the pursuit X stilled, his predatory gaze locked on the helpless man before he bent and grabbed one of the deer's hind legs, with a savage twist the limb was torn free. Thomas wanted to give a small sigh of relief, but remained dead still, not trusting the creature.

Sunlight glinted off metal, catching his frightened gaze. Thomas gaped when he recognized the glimmer of a blade flying through the air. His frantic mind screamed two separate yet equally desperate orders, MOVE, FREEZE! Death either way, from the creature or the knife. His eyes clinched shut, and he waited for the end.

 


	8. Field Testing

"Am I my brother's keeper for himself every man, I have been your reaper, there's blood on my hands. Except me as your keeper, there's been a change of plans, be careful what you speak of, I've come to understand." – Clipse

* * *

The Matron tisked while she surveyed the facility. From the outside it hadn't looked damaged, until one came to the main entrance and witnessed the crisscrossed cuts that breached the once secure doorway. Inside, the destruction became more apparent. Emergency lighting had failed, deep slashes gouged walls and made impromptu doors, disregarding the wiring housed in the steal walls. Then there were the large patches of brown, so dark they were black in the dim light. Those pools, streaks, and in places entire oceans, were scattered throughout the compound. They were a silent testament to the violence that swept the place, leaving behind nothing but corpses. Thankfully, the bodies whose life blood painted the floors and walls so harshly were absent.  _It's a shame they hadn't taken the time to mop up the blood while they were dealing with the dead_. She thought, a small sniff of distain wrinkled her nose at the mess left behind for her people to clean up.

"We've finally arrived," the Matron said to Megan while she surveyed her new domain. "It's sad to see it in such disrepair after all the scientific breakthroughs and accomplishments that were achieved in this place," she said wistfully before brightening. "But, since we will be deploying from here for the duration of the mission, perhaps we will be able to bring a little life back to this tragic place."

A beautiful smile softened the hard lines of her face. "To see this place operational once more, it's like a dream come true," she breathed.

_Not a dream Matron…more like a nightmare._  Dr. Vigil couldn't help but think, flexing the small muscles in the corners of her eyes to turn her vision to black and white. That made the splotches less terrible when the bloodstains were reduced to black smudges that have been motor oil. Her red optics flickered dully in the uncertain light of the flashlights when the ghastly tour of what would be her new home for an unspecified amount of time continued.

* * *

"Sir?," the mechanical tones of the Voice jolted him out of a slight doze. The Director blinked, chasing away vague dreams of wars long forgotten.

"Yes?" he asked, his voice gruff with the fading tendrils of sleep. "I must have fallen asleep."

"You are tired Director, it has been nearly two days since the operation began, and you've gotten less than four hours sleep in that time." The Voice was as chastening as a robotic voice was capable of being. "You should delegate more."

"No, I delegate enough as it is. It's important for a man to mind his own business and not rely on others to do it for him," he replied coldly.

"Yes, sir. It appears that Dr. Vigil has made her first report," the Voice offered.

"Good news, I trust?"

"Yes, sir. The report indicates that the Matron has arrived on-site, and that The Royal Air Force technicians are working to power up a small portion of the facility now. Within two or three hours the Weapon Null base of operations will be up and running," the Voice dutifully reported.

A rumbling laugh escaped the Director at the mention of the Air Force. "My how they squawked when I commandeered an entire fleet of Chinook, but it was necessary, and we are ahead of schedule." He said, humor flavoring his tone.

"What will happen next?" the Voice inquired.

"Once the technicians have the base in working order, call back the Chinooks. The aircrafts and crews should return to their home base-"

"But, Sir! That would leave the Matron and her team isolated," the Voice exclaimed.

"As they should be. No one from the Royal Air Force should be present when the Matron activates her little freak show."

"Won't the Matron need helicopters for her operations? For insertions, extractions, resupply-"

The Director waived away the Voice's concern. "Not to worry, I've already dispatched Major Sallow with three Blackhawks. By the time the facility is up and running, he and his men will be on site to provide any air support the Matron needs."

"Very good sir." A pregnant pause followed the words.

"Yes? What is it?" The Director demanded.

"It appears that Dr. Vigil is not reacting well to her new surroundings. She appears uncomfortable in the ruins of the Professor's lab, and I'm sure she will not appreciate knowing that she is trapped there."

"That's unfortunate, but we can't risk public exposure of the Weapon Null program. Can you imagine what would happen if one of those Airmen spilled his guts on the national news? No, the average person isn't capable of understanding our motivations for creating such…things. Even though our goal is noble, I'm afraid all they would see was the grotesquerie itself and their reaction would be outrage, not understanding," the Director sighed. "We must protect the public from truth's it simply isn't capable of handling."

* * *

Thomas's breath hissed between his teeth, waiting for the cold bite of the blade to find him.  _One blade is better than three, better than six,_  he tried to convince himself, unaware that a single blade of IX could be just as fatal, if not more so that X's claws. Time seemed to stop, and it was only the loud snarl that jerked the Indian's head up enough to see time hadn't frozen after all. Instead, the blade was lodged in the wild man's arm.

X saw the brilliant shine of sunlight glinting off metal and reacted instinctively, throwing up an arm in the path of the blade as he spun to growl at the slight form half hidden behind the rocks. That his interference saved the cowering hunter was more due to luck than design. Lips pealing back off his teeth, he stalked forward. His large bulk inadvertently blocked any further attempts on the man's life. All the weapon was focused on was the fact that his little mate had left the comfort of the cave when he'd been told to stay, and the slight trembling of the form pulled another scolding growl from his throat.

IX heard the gunshot echo through the small ravine, and he knew that the caliber was too small to be part of the actual testing. The out of place sound drew the smaller weapon out of the cave to investigate. When he spotted the hunter, still splattered with X's drying blood, he reacted. The blade flew with effortless grace from his slender fingers, but to his surprise it bit into X's arm, instead of the hunter's throat as he'd intended.

Jaded green eyes narrowed when the growl rumbled through the pass. X stalked mercilessly towards him, the leg of deer tossed over his shoulder while he gave the stranger his back. The soft scuff of shoes alerted IX to his queries escape, and he tilted his head, studying X, and wondering why the weapon had permitted the invader to live in the first place. Why did he allow the man to flee? Another tremble from the cold wracked his slender frame. IX, knowing X would drag him along anyway, turned on his heel in the shadows and vanished back to the relative warmth of the cave. The hunter could be dealt with later, if necessary.

A low grunt of annoyance escaped X when his mate vanished before he could give him a proper swat for disobeying him. He shifted into the long lope that would take him to the cave in the swiftest time. Hunger made him want to pause and tear into the leg of deer, but it was his duty to see to his mate's comfort first, and he knew the little weapon preferred his meat scorched.

When he entered the cave, he gave IX a dark look before handing over the meat. The delicate features of IX face remained neutral as he accepted the bloody offering. It didn't take him long to skin the limb and cut off a decent portion of flesh before spearing it on a stick to roast over the flames. X growled softly at the small helping when the leg was returned to him, and a single claw slid out to cut off a larger hunk of meat. Green eyes narrowed at the offered flesh, but he reached out and took it without dispute before adding it to the already cooking meat.

X gave a satisfied huff and tore into the remaining flesh, uncaring that it was raw. The hunger gnawing inside of him was replaced by the warm weight of fresh meat. By the time IX pulled the first spear off the flames and delicately cut a bit of crisp flesh free, all that remained of X's meal was a few stripped bones.

The rich scent of cooking meat made IX's stomach rumble uncomfortably. He'd never felt such hunger before. In the Hive, meals were provided at set intervals and were a precise balance to provide optimum strength and energy. The first cut of meat burned his tongue in his haste to devour it, but the taste, though lacking in seasoning, was still satisfying. At least it had some flavor, unlike the bland meals that made up his existence thus far.

Cut by careful cut, he finished the first shank of meat. IX paused between bites to lick the juice off his fingertips. Each movement was watched by dark whisky colored eyes. X studied his little mate, longing for the day when that soft pink tongue might lick something other than fingers. IX ate half the second before handing the rest off to X. The larger male gave a disapproving growl, but a single sharp glance made him reach out and take the offering.

Once the meal, the first they'd ever shared, was finished X circled the fire and grabbed IX. A small yawn was IX only reply when X tucked him into his lap to sleep. "Guard." IX murmured, allowing X to tuck his head under the large male's chin. For such an odd position, sitting mostly upright and cradled in X's arms, it was comfortable. It didn't take long for the small male's breath to even out into a light sleep. X stroked IX's wild black locks, guarding his mate's sleep and watching the lazy flames paint flickering shadows on the stone walls.

* * *

" _The first test will commence in 0700 hours. Send X to the clearing just west of your position at that time and observe the battle. Do not be seen."_ IX stirred awake at the voice.

"Yes, sir," he replied automatically.

The arms around him tightened, but the warning prick of a blade against his ribs convinced X to let go. "The first test will begin shortly, you will head out to the meadow to the west and wait. I will gather intel and watch observe the altercation." The words had the underlying note of command, telling X not to fight. It was the same tone the weapon used during battles, and one X had learned not to question.

Without hesitation, IX turned on his heel and vanished into the shadows.

* * *

Thomas paced the confines of the book lined cabin while he spoke. "When the gun went off the bullet hit him in the head." He explained, clutching the hot cup of coffee in his hands.

"And you're sure you hit it?" The Librarian persisted, studying the agitated Indian.

"Him, yes I'm sure I hit the man. The bullet slammed into his head, and the blood sprayed over my face. I saw it, and I saw the wound heal in seconds."

"What else did you see? Apart from the metal claws he was wearing on his wrists?" The Librarian asked before he took a sip from his own cup of brew.

"I'm not sure he was wearing them." Thomas admitted grudgingly. It was difficult to voice the crazy things he'd seen.

"Oh?"

"When his scalp was blown back, I saw metal." He added.

"Like a metal plate or something?" The Librarian attempted to clarify.

"Or something, I guess." Thomas shrugged after taking another long swallow of the bitter liquid. There were still more questions than answers. How was the man able to survive wearing just a pair of pants in this climate? Hell, how'd he survive a bullet to the head? And who threw the knife?

"Someone else was up there too. I didn't see it, but someone chucked a knife at me and it wasn't the Wildman. In fact, he'd moved at just the wrong, or I guess it would be right for me anyway, moment and the blade caught him in the arm. The man didn't even seem to notice!" he exclaimed, remembering the strangely annoyed growl when the stranger turned and walked away, leaving Thomas inexplicably alive.

"Hmmm, are you sure the man wasn't wearing a helmet?" the Librarian asked, dismissing the information about a second person since the native hadn't gotten a good look at that one.

"No!" Thomas cried, and turned too fast, spilling a bit of the scalding liquid over his hand. A low hiss of pain whined from his lips. He wiped the coffee off on his pants. "He had hair, and sideburns, and a beard even, his hair actually came up to points on either side of his head."

"Calm down Tommy-boy, I believe you. Just don't go blabbing about this to Martin or he'll think you're crazier than he already does. And don't you go tellin' Ben or Jerry either, or they'll think it was Sasquatch and will run off to try and hunt it down." The Librarian demanded, watching Thomas pour himself the last of the coffee.

"I wonder if that thing has anything to do with the choppers we heard the other night." The Librarian mussed.

"Me too, I haven't heard that much air traffic sense I settled here."

"There used to be a lot of traffic, a few years back. Martian thinks there was a military base out there by the dam." The Librarian confided.

"There's a dam?" Thomas asked as he studied the old man, surprise coloring the words. He'd never noticed a dam near these parts.

"Mhm, about forty miles southeast of here. I guess the base closed some time ago, haven't heard much traffic except for last night."

"I hope it isn't an omen of things to come." Thomas said with a frown before he looked down into the black depths of the coffee, seeking answers there.

* * *

The information provided on the first of the Matron's…team members was astonishing, almost incomprehensible. While Megan could grasp the science of it, what she had a harder time accepting was that anyone would volunteer to be turned into…into something so monstrous. Herbert "Hank" Gosling had been one of many troubled youths that were given a choice after their third arrest: to join the navy or to go to prison for three years. Ever defiant, Hank had opted to sign up for the marine corps instead.

Basic gave the brute no trouble at all, and he soon became part of the heavy infantry. Most of his military record was uneventful up until an incident in Africa during a United Nations peacekeeping mission. After a firefight in the jungle that killed seven men from his platoon, as well as sixteen rebels and a dozen innocent civilians, Gosling was brought up on charges. When all was said and done, he was dishonorably discharged. That should have been the end of his story, instead it was just the beginning.

It wasn't long before the ex-marine got a job working security for a Canadian firm contracted to rebuild the same rebellion-torn African nation. While working there, Gosling was injured, and the defense contractor if his unit brought him to the attention of the Director's predecessor, the man who'd founded the Weapon Null Program. Even though Gosling's wound was crippling, he'd lost part of his right hand, it could have been corrected with a bionic repair. Instead, Gosling had opted to become a living weapon for the program.

Photographs, glossy and of the highest quality, had been provided with the file. Megan only gave them a brief glance, after all, she'd be seeing Slammer in the flesh soon enough. She was struggling with the question of why someone would willingly do that to themselves when her communicator buzzed.

"Hello?"

"Dr. Vigil?" The Matron asked.

"Yes?"

"Weapon X's position was discovered in a meadow near the top of one of the mountains fifty kilometers from here. An insertion team was provided by the Director along with three military helicopters. They're set to arrive within the hour. Have you read the file?" She asked after a slight pause.

"Every word." Megan confirmed. "I found the information on Slammer to be quite astounding."

"Perfect, please join us in the lab. He's being prepped now and will be ready for the assault in an hour's time."

Megan stood up and closed the disturbing file. "I'll be there in five minutes."

* * *

IX appeared in the dark confines of one of the many storage rooms located in the deepest sublevels of the compound. After they'd cleared the complex from top to bottom, hunting for stray personnel, IX had taken the time to memorize the full layout of the structure. Now, as long as the room held shadows, no area was barred from his entry.

Moving gracefully through the pitch black room, IX whispered "open." The locked door slid open at his command, and a quick nudge of his gift. Darkness greeted him; the halls beyond the room were equally unlit. It took three levels before he encountered the long strings of lights that had been hung by the Matron's technicians. Like a shadow, he deftly made his way towards the lab and the horrid racket that indicated something of interest was occurring there. IX avoided the orange jumpsuit clad workers who scurried through the halls like day-glow rodents, and after a quick glance in the lab to see where everyone was positioned, he turned and vanished.

Two women stood on the cat-walks overlooking the large lab. At the center of the room, the source of the racket became apparent. The spectacle managed to catch IX's jaded gaze. A large bulk of a man was laid out face first on the operating table. The table had been altered to include a new bio-monitoring system incased in a reinforced steel box supported with titanium rods to help hold up the man's impressive weight. There was a huge machine situated next to the table that was the source of the mechanical racket. The top of the machine held a bin full of large caliber rounds, attached to the bottom of the machine was a chute that fed the ammunition into a surgically implanted loading breech at the base of the man's spine. An IV in the man's limp left arm pumped chemicals directly into his bulging purple veins.

The strange man's left arm was incased in a large metal tube, effectively hiding it from the weapon's green gaze. More of the orange jump-suited men swarmed around the table. One fed black hydraulic fluid into the metal tube while others monitored the ammunition feed. There was a grotesquely large hump on the man's back that resembled a turtle's shell. Studying the misshapen lump, IX could see the sharp curve of ribs supporting the oddity.

His narrow gaze turned to the two women. It was easy to see how the orange suits differed to the older female when one scurried up to offer the younger a headset to cut out the noise and permit the two to speak to one another. IX wasn't positioned well enough to see the younger woman's face, but the older was angled just right for him to see her lips from his shadowed hiding place.

" _Slammer earned his name due to the organically fabricated mini gun grafted onto his left arm."_ He watched the dance of lips, teeth and tongue, reading the words that couldn't be heard over the percussion of noise. The other one asked a question.

" _It's quite simple Dr. Vigil, the cannon was fashioned out of the subjects own biological material. You see, near the end of the Weapon Null program, the Professor mastered a technique allowing him to grow bone matter into any shape he desired. Unfortunately, the process has been lost to us, but we still have Slammer."_ The woman explained, gesturing down at the unconscious being. The young woman made some comment that spurned another generous offering of information.

" _After all four of the barrels for the Gatling gun were grown, they were sheathed in titanium steel to increase muzzle velocity and stopping power. The bioweapon was modeled after a four barrel GAU-13/A Gatling gun. It takes thirty-millimeter shells that have been designed to be lightweight and explode on impact. There are more than ten thousand rounds in the organic sac on Slammer's upper spine."_ IX's eyes darted back to the misshapen lump on the man's back, noting the weapon's weak point. Should the sac be ruptured, it would potentially destroy the entire store of ammunition.

His attention returned to the woman.  _"The bullets are expelled from the sac into organic loading tubes via methane gas created in Slammer's digestive system. From there, the bullets are fed into the breach using muscular peristalsis."_ The younger said something that made the woman look cross for a moment, another burst of speech appeared to appease her, and the explanation continued.  _"Yes, the organic tubes are made from the subject's lower colon. We found that having just one loading tube was too slow, so two have been grafted into Slammer's forearm. This also gives us the added benefit of two different types of ammunition. The sac on Slammer's back is divided into two compartments, one about a quarter of the size of the other. That one holds incendiary ammunition, whereas the larger only holds exploding rounds. We thought it would be best to have a limited number of incendiary rounds. After all, we are trying to capture Weapon X not destroy it, and it wouldn't do to start a forest fire."_ She said with a laugh.

The Matron shifted, her mouth hidden now. IX shifted to bring it back into sight when the younger woman's head snapped around to study the space he'd been standing a moment before.

* * *

Megan blinked and stared into the deep shadows. Aflick of muscle shifted her vision to infrared, but still nothing. The Matron followed her gaze. "Jumping at shadows?" She asked in a mocking tone.

"I thought I saw someone," she murmured, before she turned away from the now empty patch of darkness. One of the benefits of her optics was that her eyes did not play tricks on her. And the small human shape that had been standing in the shadows couldn't have been a mere trick of the light. But, it was gone now, whatever it was and she wasn't sure what to make of it. The catwalk was designed in such a way that the person would have had to pass them to leave, but it had vanished into thin air.  _Maybe it's just the stress of living in a place where so many died,_  she decided, returning her attention to the Matron's long winded explanations.

"Originally, the Null Program was designed to create soldiers that were also self-contained advanced weapons systems," she said, pride shining in her eyes.

"Do you believe you succeeded in that goal?" Megan asked, giving Slammer a pointed look. The weapon was far from self-contained.

"To varying degrees," the Matron conceded.

"But each member of your team requires complex and expensive procedures just for travel and maintenance, that's hardly self-contained."

"I said that was the original aim of the program. But, just as we were starting to make real progress, funding for the Weapon Null program was diverted to more promising avenues of research. That is all about to change though," the Matron said with a beatific smile.

"What do you mean?"

"You see, it's really quite simple. Slammer is not the most powerful or advanced member of this unit, yet I'm certain that he, acting alone, will be more than enough to capture or even destroy Weapon X if it should come to that. When the Director sees how well Slammer performed against something as advanced as Weapon X, he will return funding to my program." The Matron's eyes closed as a look of pure joy at being able to prove the validity of her team crossed her face.

_Good lord, she has no idea how expendable her team is, and the level of contempt the Director feels for the Weapon Null Program,_  Megan thought disdainfully. Just then, the loud clamber ceased and the deafening silence made her ears ache.

"It's time."

* * *

Icy wind blew through the clearing, and the delicious scent of his mate caused X to turn his predatory gaze toward the tree-line. Light flashed half way up a massive pine, a deliberate twist of a blade to catch the sun. A disgruntled growl rumbled in X's chest at the sight. Now that they were no longer in the careful confines of the Hive, no matter how deadly the tests there might have been, he felt a driving need to protect the slight male. He wanted to bundle him up and return him to the warmth and safety of the cave. Not allow him out here, where danger could strike.

A snort caused a puff of fog-like air to explode from his nose like dragon smoke. No matter how IX yielded to his bite, or even permit him to coddle him in this windswept wilderness, the large Weapon knew that this was a mission, and nothing diverted his mate from a mission. It made X furious to know IX would sacrifice everything, even his life, if that was what the mission called for. Nothing, and no one, could keep him from completing an assigned task short of death. It made X restless to know that the one thing he couldn't protect the smaller weapon from was himself. If ordered to, IX would end his own life in an instant and that knowledge ate at X. The thoughts were new, and linked to the strange other that whispered deep in the darkest recesses of his mind, that pushed and nudged and guided him in his quest to protect the tiny male.

The oddly philosophical thoughts were interrupted by the deep thrum of chopper blades cutting through the winter air. A blast of snow caused by the Blackhawk's blades obscured X's vision when the helicopter crested the cliff edge that lined the left side of the exposed outcropping of a field. His dark eyes tracked the helicopter, and a low snarl curled his lips when a malformed shape appeared in the open troop compartment door.

The being was thickly muscled, with oversized hips and legs as thick as tree trunks. His left shoulder was bigger than his right, and there was a large pulsating hump on his back. Titanium armor formed sheets over heavy slabs of muscle and were linked by a pitch black steel battle suit. The man's eyes were covered with wide goggles that held a highly sophisticated targeting system, and his head was incased in a titanium helmet. A grenade launcher had been fixated to the man's musclebound right arm, but it was his left that caught X's gaze. The shoulder and upper arm were as beefy as the rest of him, but from the elbow down a multi-barreled Gatling gun incased in gleaming white bone grew where the remainder of his arm should have been.

X was studying his prey when the man's head snapped up, locking on his position. "I'm comin for you X!" The voice bellowed out a challenge, enhanced to blast mechanically over the clearing. The chopper dipped, and the man leapt out to land on the ground. "I'm Slammer, but to you…I Am Death" the man yelled dramatically. In his perch, IX frowned at the foolish display. Had this been his fight, the target would be choking on his own blood right now, a blade buried in the slim seam between suit and helmet before he'd even gotten off a single shot.

Growling, X faded back into a corps of ancient pines that lined one side of the clearing. He would wait for his prey to come to him. A rain of exploding bullets caused him to dive for cover when the pine trunks began exploding around him, severed by the prolonged bursts of fire. Trees began crashing down around him, and X scrabbled on all fours, twisting out of the way as the trees attempted to crush him.

"Come out, come out, where ever you are," the taunting voice echoed over the din of falling trees. X ran along a shallow depression. His hunched over back was riddled with splinters from the exploding trees, but the pain was ignored in favor of the hunt. The small ditch came to a dead end and fearlessly X broke cover.

"There you are!" Slammer shouted in triumph, sending a barrage of bullets crashing into the forest in front of X. A falcon shot out of one of the falling trees, and with perfect precision Slammer shot a single bullet. The bird exploded in a show of feathers and blood. "You're next you freak, and you won't go as easy as that turkey," he shouted.

X ignored the meaningless taunts. While he could understand language, only IX's words were worth listening too. X's lips pealed back in a silent snarl when he realized he had to watch which way he moved. He didn't want those bullets tearing up the forest where IX was. Silence rang through the clearing as he crouched behind a pile of boulders. Playing prey was not a game he cared much for, and he listened for the sound of the other's movements waiting for the opportunity to turn the game around.

_The helmet, he can see you!_  The words caused X to startle, jerking in surprise at the clear words that shouted in his mind. The source of the nudging had never spoken so clearly before. Before he could make use of this new information, a tattoo of gunfire sent a torrent of white hot bullets into his chest, arms and legs. Agony roared through Weapon X when the heavy projectiles began tearing great chunks out of his flesh. One ricocheted of his adamantium sheathed spine, and ricocheted pinball-like through his guts, shredding his insides before blasting out of his lower abdomen, leaving a ragged hole behind. Blood gushed from the tattered flesh in a scalding flood. Sunned, the force of the bullets sent X face first into the rocks he'd been hiding behind, hacking up bloody bale peppered with chunks of his own lungs.

A hoarse snarl tore from his blood soaked lips, and he turned with his claws fully extended. Slammer stepped out from between two rocks and fired a single shot. Before he could dodge, the bullet ripped a savage gouge in X's jugular, causing his head to snap back as if he'd been stuck by a bat. Blood poured from the open wound, flowing over his bare torso in a crimson wave. X collapsed to his knees, but still stubbornly refused to fall.

His fury maddened features twisted into a bloody snarl when the shadow loomed over him. A large hand twisted in his hair, jerking his head back. The fatal wound tore further under the brutal assault, causing a fountain of blood to splash over the sleek black armor. The stink of cordite and scorched flesh filled his nostrils when the red hot barrel of the mini-gun was pressed against his temple.

IX sat unmoving in his perch, and watched the massacre with indifferent eyes, not noticing the tiny blade gripped tightly in his right hand, aching defy orders and fly.

Slammer's laughter rang through the clearing with grim finality.

* * *

"How disappointing," the Director's chilled voice stated while he studied the image on the giant high-definition screen. "It would appear that the Professor sold us a false bill of goods after all. Weapon X is a complete failure. Worse, it is little more than a joke if one of the Matron's junkyard dogs can naturalize it."

"This is not the outcome I anticipated," the Voice agreed dispassionately. "In spite of the high potential of the project, it would appear that Weapon X has failed its first true test."

"What is the Matron seeing?"

"She sees precisely what we do, sir. The visual optics in the subject's helmet are relaying a live feed to her as we speak."

"I'm sure she's celebrating," the Director said bitterly. "We have been soundly defeated by her pathetic excuse of a weapon."

"Sir, this is a scientific experiment. There are no winners or losers here, just data to be collected." The Voice reasoned.

"Perhaps there aren't losers, but there are failures and that is what we are now bearing witness to, an unmitigated failure." The Director replied, his blue eyes flashing. "All those resources and for what? Weapon X turned out to be worthless."

"Sir, please observe the monitor," the Voice interrupted.

* * *

"This is it? This is the legendary beast who killed the Professor and his entire staff? The bane of Department K?" Slammer snarled, pulling the barrel away and waiving it in a show of disgust. "I hope you're catching all of this Matron! I want everyone in the Department to witness me destroying their precious toy soldier," he shouted.

X shuddered, feeling the large wounds knit together. His ebbing strength began to return, and his blood was replenished. With a roar, X lunged to his feet. His claws crossed in a slashing arch at Slammer's face, cutting not just air, but the optical targeting system as well. In a mini-explosion, the large lenses fractured spraying broken glass and sparks over X.

Screeching, Slammer jerked back and fumbled with the emergency release on the helmet. Just when X was about to leap onto the man to finish him, the weapon spit deadly fire in his direction, causing him to dive away as rock shrapnel imbedded itself into his side. Swift as a fox, he bounded over the rocks, taking shelter from the hail of bullets.

"GOD DAMN IT!" Slammer roared, tearing the destroyed head gear off. The move revealed his shaved head now seared by fire. His eyebrows were scorched off and tears blinded him. USB ports embedded in Slammer's scalp were reduced to dangling wires that continued to smolder and spark. X snarled preparing to leap at the blinded man when the roar of the Gatling gun forced him to flatten himself on the ground to avoid another barrage of tearing bullets. Slammer scrubbed at his burning eyes with his right hand while his left fired blindly.

When he could see again, X had vanished. "You think I need fancy eyes to kill your ass?" Slammer snarled into the empty wilderness. "Well you're wrong! Don't you get it? I'm the gun! I'm the gun and I'm comin for you!" he bellowed, waiving the Gatling gun skyward. Still howling furious curses, Slammer ran the length of the valley and back, mindless in his rage.

X waited with patience of a stalking panther, crouched, and hidden from view on an overhanging cliff high above the agitated weapon. He'd used his claws to climb the sheer cliffs that bracketed the other end of the valley. A guttural snarl reverberated in his chest while he waited for the pray to come into striking distance.

Slammer's head jerked around at the sound, and he looked up. "There you are, Weapon X!" He crowed, firing at the cliff in a continuous burst of both explosive shells and incendiary bullets. The rock beneath X gave way and with a grinding screech. X howled in fury and lashed out to bury his claws into the stone of the mountain side.

Through the avalanche of cascading mountain side, a single shot found its mark. The explosive bullet slammed into X's left leg, struck the adamantium-encased femur, and detonated. Flesh and muscle were instantly vaporized leaving only sleek silver bones exposed to the frozen air. The massive impact reverberated throughout the metal skeleton, tearing muscle, popping joints, and sending X's brain bouncing around his skull like a BB in a barrel. Weapon X hung limply by the blades imbedded in the mountain, knocked senseless from the devastating attack. Tiny veins and arteries crept ivy like over exposed bone while he hung stunned after the shocking blow.

Below the now shattered ledge, the only thing that stood between the bottom of the mountain and the avalanche of cascading rock was Slammer. Terror sparked in his chest, and he scrambled to find cover when a bolder the size of a large cow crashed into his chest. Air woofed out of his lungs, and the sac on his back ruptured under the crushing pressure, sending a spill of bloody bullets over the rocks. The cascade of stone flung Slammer off the side of the mountain before pinning his broken body under their devastating weight.

* * *

The shrill wail of alarms bounced chaotically through the Professor's ruined facility. Emergency teams were assembled to deal with the fallout of the battle. Outside, a tide of orange-jump suited men who were part of Weapon Nulls' medical retrieval unit sprinted across the tarmac, piling into the two remaining Blackhawks.

Inside the laboratory equally frenzied activity commenced. Technicians tried to restart Slammer's bio-monitoring systems. Until those were functioning they wouldn't know if the weapon was still alive. The lab was brimming with people running to get medical supplies, plasma, and any number of other odds and ends that would be needed to put the weapon back together.

_All the king's horses, and all the king's men,_  Megan thought, feeling mildly hysterical stringing cables from the emergency generator to help power the new mechanical devices that were appearing like mushrooms after a rain shower. A team of specialists put the final touches on the emergency operating room that had grown out of the ruins of the Professor's old domain while they waited for the retrieval team to return with their patient.

"Are the bio-monitors up?" The Matron asked. She stood in the center of the room, orchestrating the frantic activity, making split-second decisions and issuing orders in a cool, even tone.

"They're coming online now Ma'am." One of the orange clad techs said as he surveyed the screens. "He's alive! Unconscious, and he's lost a good deal of blood, but he's alive."

Just when the tension started to fade, and the activity picked up, the screen gave an ominous beep. "He's…gone." The tech breathed, confusion etched over his face. A second ago, Slammer had been gravely wounded but stable, now he was flat-lined.

"What!" The Matron demanded before storming over to the council to stare at the proof with her own eyes. "Damn it. Still, we will retrieve the body." She said with a heavy heart. Losing her men was the most difficult part of her job, and every loss was like a personal failure.

* * *

The Director gave the image on the screen a dark smirk. "Sir, did you see that?" The Voice asked.

"I didn't see anything at all." He said blandly, ignoring the small flicker of shadow that had appeared over the mound where Slammer lay, along with the dark spray of arterial blood that bloomed before the shadow flickered out of existence.

* * *

IX slipped the blood slick blade back into its sheath, not taking the proper time to clean it before vanishing. He reappeared, perched on a rock outcropping a foot from X's slumped form. The sun had begun to sink below the rim of mountains, casting deep shadows over the hanging man when IX reached down to nestle his small hand in X's wiry hair. Closing his eyes, he focused and _pulled_. Instantly the two shadowy shapes disappeared.


	9. Interference

"A person who is too nice an observer of the business of the crowd, like one who is too curious in observing the labor of bees, will often be stung for his curiosity." – Alexander Pope

* * *

Cold granules of packed snow creaked when Thomas shifted his weight forward. He'd dropped to his belly to crawl into position hidden among winder capped brush. Booming chop of blades overhead alerted him to the helicopter that had appeared after tattoo of heavy gunfire that drew him up the mountain had ended in a roar of stone just before the Native topped the hill. Now the area was eerily calm except for the buzz of the helicopter tracking over the sky. The side door of the helicopter opened, revealing a black clad figure who appeared to be shining a flashlight out of the opening. Thomas knew better, the man was using a laser to mark out a landing zone to guide in more aircrafts and personnel.

His dark gaze trailed over the large scar marring the side of the mountain, completely obliterating the old path up to the peak. A muffled curse was pulled from his throat when he saw a small shape clinging to the top of the swath of destruction. Shifting, he moved the Colt Commando off his shoulder, and he reached for the pouch at his hip. It didn't take long to fish out the binoculars he'd borrowed from the Librarian before setting out. Bringing them up, he focused on the distant shape. Thomas jerked the binoculars away and bit his tongue to keep from heaving up his dinner at the sight of the Wildman.

Still breathing heavily, Thomas's hands shook more than he cared to admit, but he forced himself to look again. The Wildman hung limp as death from the shattered rocks. Somehow, those terrible claws managed to anchor the body to the sheer cliff face. Shuddering, he trailed his gaze down the man's body, stopping when he came to the leg. Or what was left of it. From this distance, even with the help of the binoculars, it was difficult to understand what he was seeing, or maybe his mind didn't want to make sense of the image. It looked like the limb had been…de-fleshed, yet that was impossible wasn't it? Anything that could do that kind of damage would have blown the leg right off. It was difficult to see, but he thought there was something unusual about the bones. They shimmered in an unnatural way, reflecting the light. He remembered the bullet that had pealed back the Wildman's scalp, revealing the glint of silver instead of shattered white.

_Gods of my fathers, he'll never survive a wound like that._  Even as the thought filled his mind, Thomas's hand jerked again when an even smaller figure appeared, literally just  _appeared_  out of nowhere, standing on a small out crop just above the Wildman. It was a boy, a mere child crouched indifferently on the rocks before he reached forward and rested his hand against the Wildman's hair. Then, just as the boy had appeared, they both…vanished. "That's not possible!" Thomas shouted, feeling like he was losing his mind. Rubbing his eyes hard he looked again, no badly wounded Wildman, no boy, nothing at all. "Impossible," he muttered again, refusing to believe what he'd seen.

* * *

An animalistic howl of pain ricocheted off of the hard stone walls of the cave when the harsh jolt of being displaced woke X from his stupor. IX was slumped across his gore smeared chest, and wicked claws were halted an inch from the small weapon's neck by the slender blade that came up just in time to catch the larger weapon's downward stroke at the wrist.

"Be still," IX commanded while X's blood flowed freely onto his upturned face. His arm was twisted at an awkward angle to keep from being speared by X's savagery, but the smaller weapon's strength didn't falter. "Be still," IX repeated, the words were as remote as the winter wind, apathetic towards the wounded animal look in X's eyes that made the much larger male tremble with the need to attack. Twisting to free his other arm from where it was pinned beneath him, IX brought his hand up and swiped his fingers down X's face. The head turned fast as a striking serpent, but IX didn't flinch, even when teeth caught, and held his slender fingers in a tight but not crushing grip.

X's tongue flicked questioningly over the delicate digits before IX's scent broke through the killing haze his wounds had locked his mind in. The small hand remained passive in his grip, waiting with the patience of the moon for him to decide to accept or reject him. Shuddering, a softer keening sound was pulled from his barrel like chest as he nibbled the fingers in apology. Jade eyes watched X's form relax, coming down from the predatory high the fighting and wounds had forced on him. "Remain here, you will need sustenance to heal," he said indifferently, but the way IX absently stroked X's bottom lip as he spoke gave lie to the heartless tone.

After a long moment, the large male released his grip and lifted his wrist away from the cutting edge. One more wound among many. The screaming agony of his leg made X stifle another bellow when IX stood, and accidentally brushed against the raw bones now sheathed in a thin layer of vein and muscle. The safe confines of the cave, thick with IX's scent helped set X at ease, and the darkness of healing sleep pulled him down into its depths.

Gentle fingertips pressed against X's throat after he slumped into unconsciousness. Assured that the wounds hadn't killed the supposedly un-killable weapon, IX walked deeper into the cave. Once the shadows were thick enough, he turned and vanished. The jump was a short one, taking him into the woods not far from the mouth of the cave. Standing still as death, IX listened to the gentle murmur of the woods. In the distance he heard the crash of rock being excavated at the site of the battle, but that was unimportant. IX glided through the thick woods with the silent stride of a hunter seeking what X needed.

Moving wrath-like between the towering trunks, IX was reminded of his earliest training and how he'd hunted the shadow men. He recalled the subtle sound of weight shifting minutely from the branches, and the delicate fall of a foot when the shadow men vanished and reappeared. Those early lessons served him now as he listened for the soft crunch of hooves on snow. A squirrel chattered angrily at the stalking predator, alerting the forest to the fact that death hunted the woods. IX's lips twisted into the ghost of a snarl at the warning, but he didn't waste time killing such small game. No, X needed something more substantial than a few noisy squirrels.

There, the sound of antlers raking against the bark of a tree. Zeroing in on the noise, IX stalked through the underbrush. He moved like liquid past branches that tried to catch on his clothes and hair, but they never managed to touch him. The thick wall of green broke up, revealing a small clearing. A large buck stood majestically next to a massive oak His antlers tore at the tree with enough force to leave great gouges in the thick bark. IX's wrist flicked, the subtle movement so slight it went unnoticed by the great beast.  _Thunk_! The small blade slammed into the buck's skull, just below the flicking left ear. His head jerked up, large velvety brown eyes went wide as he took two bounding leaps before his body gave out, sending the creature crashing to the ground in a heap of twitching limbs.

IX waited, the hint of impatience shining in his emerald gaze for the animal to stop moving before he stepped into the clearing. On feet as quiet as cat paws, IX padded over to the fallen deer before bending over and resting one small hand on the top of the creature's wide shoulder. Closing his eyes, he focused, pulling X along with him had been the first time IX had tried to bring something so large with him while he jumped, and the deer was massive as well. One breath, another, and they vanished.

* * *

A self-satisfied smirk danced along the Director's withered lips while he studied the copious amount of data flowing over his monitors like research gold. Resting his chin on his steepled fingers, he could not suppress the dark chuckle that tickled the back of his throat. His desk was clean of paperwork, the dark wood shined to a high gloss reflected his gloating features. The Director had forgotten how delicious it was to completely destroy an opponent. Weapon X had performed stunningly, slaughtering the Matron's monster and proving itself to be the superior weapon.

"Director? The Matron sent in her report. We received Major Swallow's as well," the Voice said, it's mechanical tone breaking the Director's train of thought.

"Very good, and what does she have to report?"

"Slammer was terminated in the battle. The Matron is already getting the next member of her team prepped and ready. It is her intention to attack at dawn before the Weapon his fully recovered," the Voice replied.

"Clever, clever," came the Director's dark response. He would allow it. This was a perfect opportunity to gauge well the weapon's recovery time was between battles.

"She requests all of the usual support, control of our satellites, air support…"

The Director waved his hand. "Give her what she needs. Don't bother me with such trivialities. Now, what about Major Sallow's report?"

"It appears that there has been a starling new development. According to Major Sallow, a local was spotted near the scene of the altercation between Weapon X and Slammer. The man got away before the Major's men could intercept him."

"What do you mean a local? That facility was placed in the middle of nowhere for a reason. There shouldn't have been any towns near enough for locals to be involved."

"That isn't precisely the case. Prior to construction of the Professor's lab, as well as the dam, a routine security assessment of the region revealed two communities, about two miles apart, both located within fifty miles of the facility," the Voice reported.

"That's not possible. The facility was meant to be secret. In order to make that happen, the Government would have enacted eminent domain. The Department would have bought the land and evicted the people long before the facility was competed," the Director protested.

"Perhaps, but the communities are not documented. In essence, they are squatters who took the land for their own. There are no deeds, no censes records of the population, no ownership."

The Director paused, an incredulous look twisting his features. "You must be joking, what are they, a fanatical cult or something" he snorted.

"Both communities are made up of squatters, most of whom are in Canada illegally. The first started as a counterculture commune that migrated from California to escape drug charges. The second was a survivalist cult who'd fled into the wilderness when they predicted the end of the world was imminent twenty-two years ago. Reports show the two communities have merged into one. A small settlement of roughly one hundred individuals." The Voice stated while the monitor reconfigured to show a satellite image of a small township of rough wooden buildings situated around a well. "Forty-seven log cabins and three larger wooden structures make up the town."

The Director's fingers tapped against the polished surface of his desk. "I see. This isn't going to be a problem. In fact, it might present us with an opportunity."

"Director?" The Voice questioned.

"What we have here is a community of squatters. They are little more than antisocial misfits and miscreants who survive without electricity, running water, or other amenities of society. As a whole, they keep to themselves, are unemployed, and don't pay property or income taxes. They don't have credit cards or documentation." Again the dark grin flared across his lips. "In short, they don't exist."

Silence descended at the proclamation. "Sir, how precisely should we deal with people who do not exist?" The voice finally questioned.

"At this time we will do nothing. As long as they don't interfere or spy on our activities, I am content to let them be. But, if they do cause a nuisance of themselves, the whole town will have to be neutralized. The Weapon Null program can obliterate all traces of the town, or perhaps we will lose Weapon X on them. That might be quite interesting."  _Or perhaps this would be a good test for IX,_  the Director mused, returning his attention to the streams of data that flickered endlessly over the screen.

* * *

Dr. Vigil shuddered under the cold water cascading over her slim body. The autopsy, no it couldn't even be called that, the  _dissection_  of Slammer concluded half an hour ago. She scrubbed the dark splotches of blood, accented with swirls of oil, from her skin and wondered if she would ever feel clean again. For all the care and supposed affection the Matron professed to feel for her team, those feelings seemed to die with the team member's death.

They didn't just examine the body for means of death, no the Matron wanted to show off. Not only that, but the woman  _harvested_  parts of the dead soldier to be shipped back to her own lab for more in depth study. Megan still felt ill by the woman's excited tone when she pealed back the monstrosity's flesh and showed her how he'd been shaped and crafted. It was then Dr. Vigil understood that the Matron had no care for the men under her command. She saw them as things, as models she could shape for her own use, and when they were broken, they were reduced to nothing more than spare parts.

Finally, she could stand the cold water no longer, oh how she wished it was scalding hot. Much to her displeasure, the hot water was not functioning and wouldn't be any time soon. Megan dried herself, rubbing harshly at her cold pebbled skin as if the sting of the cloth might ease her disgust over helping that woman. She'd just finished dressing when her phone went off.

"This is Dr. Vigil," the said, proud that her voice didn't shake.

Without pausing for small talk, the Matron stated, "operation Blowtorch has been cleared for activation. Have you read the file? If not, I will brief you when you arrive. I'm afraid that we will begin activation in less than three hours. If you wish to be present for the entire opperat-"

"I require very little sleep Matron, when would you like me to come down?" Megan interrupted. After her new visual optics were installed, she'd found that she only needed two hours of sleep for every thirty while they recharged. When the recharging phase was finished, her brain switched back on with the optics.

"Be here at oh-five-hundred," came the Matron's curt response before the line went dead. Sighing, Megan reached for the stack of files before letting her hand drop. She had no interest in reading about another one of the Matron's projects, not now. In a short time, she would see another of the Matron's men, her creations, prepped and sent out to be slaughtered.

* * *

IX stumbled and fell to one knee after he reappeared at the back of the cave. Carrying objects that weighted many times more than himself while he shadow jumped was more of a strain than the young Weapon realized. Soft gasping breaths escaped him, and he fought the dizziness that threaded to overwhelm him. A low questioning growl rumbled from the other side of the cave. "I'm fine, wait there. I will bring the food to you." IX replied, his voice rasping as he sat down hard.  _I will need to practice jumping with weights. This weakness is unacceptable,_  IX thought before sliding a long blade out of the sheath at his hip.

The past few days taught IX how to deal with crafting meals out of raw flesh, but none of that experience prepared him for the daunting task of dismantling an entire deer on his own. The short Weapon didn't hesitate. The knife sank into the dead flesh as easily as it did the living, and he began skinning the animal's haunches. Working with care, he cut large shanks of meat free. He ignored the thick blood that stained his hands and clothes, it could be tended to later. When IX had a sizable portion, he stood and carried the bloody offering to where X lay near the crackling fire. Cool jade eyes took in the sight of the leg, now thick with muscle but still unsheathed by skin. It was a gruesome sight, one that would cause many a man to be violently ill, but IX just studied the healing and nodded before handing over the large chunks of meat.

X fell on the raw flesh like a half starved beast, tearing into the offering with a voraciousness that told IX the meat he'd brought wouldn't last long. Returning to the carcass, IX continued his rather terrible attempt at butchery. It took five more trips to strip most of the easily accessible flesh from the beast and still X feasted. Digging deeper into the body, IX removed the heart, liver, and kidneys. The organs were high in protein as well as copper. X would need all he could get to recover from the devastating wounds in preparation of the battles to come.

Returning to X, he presented the large male with each organ and watched while they were devoured. When they were gone, IX started to stand to retrieve more sustenance, but a large hand caught his wrist and pulled him forward. A low satisfied rumble vibrated X's chest, his belly distended with the huge meal, and the pain in his leg beginning to fade, he tugged his mate closer. Pulling the blood soaked hands close, X's tongue darted out, bathing the skin clean while relishing the taste of his little mate flavored by the blood of the kill.

Calmly, IX indulged X in this and allowed the male to tend to his hands. When he was finished, X pulled him close against his chest and was again overcome with the need for sleep.

* * *

_There is a settlement located_ near _your position, observe its inhabitants and the layout, be familiar with it. Do not allow them to see you. The next field test for Weapon X will be at 0600, finish your observations before then._

The Director's voice whispered in his mind, and IX shifted in X's grip. The thick arm tightened around him, and IX waited until it went limp again before easing out of the cradle of X's arms. "Yes, sir," he murmured quietly to keep from disturbing the sleeping male. IX recalled the small grouping of buildings they'd passed though when they first abandoned the lab and figured that was the area he was to scout. The fire had burned down to mere glowing embers, leaving most of the cave in darkness. Twisting, IX vanished into the night.

* * *

"Who goes there?" A voice barked. The tiny blade that bloomed in IX hand nearly silenced the large man forever when another voice answered.

"It's just me dumb ass, get that light out of my face won't you?" Thomas snapped when Jerry flashed the beam of his flashlight directly in his eyes. Neither man noticed the small shadow hidden among the deeper shadows of the tree line. "Where's your better half?" Thomas asked. It had taken him until well past night fall to make it back to the settlement. Those damned orange suits spotted him when he tried to sneak away after he watched them digging out the corpse of a god forsakenly large man from the rubble. It took some doing, and more than a bit of cat and mouse play to escape, but Thomas managed to give them the slip. He had to hide out in the hollow under a log for a few hours, but whoever those men were, they weren't good news and being caught by them wouldn't have ended well.

Stepping out from behind Old Hermit's shack, his worn sealskin jacket buttoned tightly over his large belly, Ben, bald, bearded and armed with a bear riffle joined Jerry.

"Jesus Ben, what do you think you're going to shoot with that thing?" Thomas asked.

"Librarian said you ran into a wild man, coulda bin a Sasquatch" Ben grunted as he gave the surrounding woods a hard stare with his dark beady eyes.

"The wild man is not a Sasquatch," Thomas replied, rolling his eyes. Leave it to these idiots to jump to such a conclusion. "He was just some crazy old hermit, probably passing through," he lied, no need to give these two more ammunition. There was no way they would survive against the Wildman.

"What was all that shooting about?" A nasally voice cut the darkness. Thomas sighed when Marten stepped off the Old Hermit's porch to join them.

"Don't know much more than you. The shooting was done by the time I got up there. An avalanche took out a good chunk of the trail, and there were helicopters buzzing around. Looking for lost hikers or the like would be my guess," Thomas said, mingling the truth with lies. Those choppers were looking for something alright, and they found it. Only it wasn't some helpless hiker, or lost motorist. It was some sort of deformed giant of a man who was quite dead. But, a conspiracy theorist Martin needed to know that about as much as Tom and Jerry needed to know about the Wildman.

Light flooded the area when Martin turned on his lantern. IX backed deeper into the shadows of the trees as he watched the men interact. The movement went unnoticed while Martin's suspicious gaze locked on Thomas. "What's that? Oh my God! You have a machine gun? How could you bring something like that to this place?" he demanded his voice reaching a shrillness that made Thomas grit his teeth against the desire to smack the man.

Ben and Jerry both stepped back from Thomas. "What I'm packing's none of your business." Thomas replied, his dark eyes locking on Martin. "I have a right to bear arms-"

"In case you're forgetting, this isn't the United States Army boy" Marin said snidely. "Machine guns aren't legal in Canada."

"Actually, it isn't really a machine gun…it's more of an automatic-" Jerry started to say before Martin interrupted.

"It doesn't matter! It is military stuff, that's what it is. Guns manufactured by war machines for the sake of killing other human beings." Turning on his heel, the short man shook his finger in Thomas's face. "Guns like that, and the killers who use them, bring nothing but trouble," he hissed. Snorting, Thomas shoved past Martin and stormed into his cabin, slamming his door in the other man's face. "You're nothing but trouble Thomas Swimming Horse! You and your gun, you'll bring war here!" Martin shouted at the closed door.

IX watched the drama unfold as he studied the men and the level of threat they posed. He recognized the Native as the same one who'd shot X. The taunt of Army Boy lead the short Weapon to believe that Thomas had military experience. The other two men were large, and armed, but would still be easy to take down by surprise. The last one screamed civilian, he wouldn't be trouble. Once the soldier retreated, the civilian roused the rest of the small township and called a meeting in the large central building.

Waiting until the meeting was well underway, IX began his reconnaissance mission. It took less than half an hour for him to map out the town and familiarize himself with its layout. The meeting was still going strong, and he listened at one of the windows for a few minutes before turning away. Apparently they were fighting about whether or not to banish Thomas for bringing military weapons into the community.  _Foolish of them_ , IX thought. Banishing one's protectors was not a logical course to take if the group wished to survive. Not that Thomas would be enough of a deterrent to protect them if the Director decided they required more than mere observation.

His task compete, IX returned to the cave.

* * *

"It is unfortunate that the glitch in your bionics doesn't permit you to see this Dr. Vigil," the Matron's condescending voice made Megan want to scowl, but she forced a pleasant smile to remain on her features. "Blowtorch has washed the entire western side of the mountain in flames in just under three minutes," she continued oblivious to Megan's ire. Her gaze locked on the monitors showing the satellite feed of the battle site.

"I thought we were trying to avoid a forest fire. After all, that is the governments land." Megan said, observing the rest of the people in the room. Everyone's gaze, from the Matron down to the orange clad techs, was fixated on what the monitors had to show.

"Not to worry Doctor. Blowtorch is merely putting on a show to flush out Weapon X. I assure you that he is not going to burn down half of the Canadian wilderness," the Matron said, her tone smug while she waited for the questions that would permit her to flaunt the glory of her creation.

Corporal MacKenzie, the only regular Canadian official to remain after the troops were recalled, obliged her. He stood in the typical stance of the Military. His back ramrod straight, and his hands behind his back when he spoke. "Begging your pardon ma'am, but it looks like he's going to burn it all down."

"And that's where you're mistaken Corporal. You see, Blowtorch is able to do more than just create fire, he is able to control it. Should he choose to do so, he can extinguish the flames in seconds. Power without control is less than useless, it is dangerous. Just look at Weapon X. The Professor created an awesome weapon, upon that we can all agree, but he couldn't control it, and in turn it destroyed him," she replied.

"How does he do it? Control the fires I mean," the Corporal asked.

"As a soldier, I'm sure you're familiar with napalm, its components and how it functions?" she inquired.

"Yes ma'am. Napalm is a petroleum-based jelly that is highly flammable. By placing this jelly into bombs the napalm is dispersed over a large area and clings to anything it touches. Because it is nearly impossible to extinguish, it creates the maximum amount of damage possible," the man responded, giving a perfect textbook answer.

"Correct. The difference between such incendiary devices and Blowtorch is that he does not use jelly or liquid to create his fires. Instead he utilizes a highly flammable methane gas that is manufactured in three auxiliary stomachs." She paused when it appeared that the Corporal had a question but didn't wish to interrupt.

"Three stomachs ma'am?"

"Indeed, Blowtorch actually has four stomachs. The first is, of course, the one he uses normally. The other three were harvested from Angus bulls and grafted onto his lungs, of which he also has four." The soldier gave her a surprised look, as if he wasn't quite sure he believed her.

"And these…extras…somehow produce fire?" He asked hesitantly.

"The lungs are only there to provide propulsion. It is in the stomachs where the flammable gas is produced via methanogenesis, which is the formation of methane by microbe organisms. So, the gas is produced in the stomachs, which then fills the lungs and is expelled through his mouth on a jet of pure oxygen processed in his lungs." She paused again to see if he was still following, when he remained silent she continued. "Because of the extra organs, Blowtorch's ribcage was severed and strips of expandable material were used to reconnect them. This gives him enough room to expand when he fills all of his lungs at once. These alterations permit his chest to expand ten times its normal size."

"How do the gasses ignite?"

"There are a series of mandibles, much like those found in a crab's mouth, located in Blowtorch's throat. When they click together, it creates a spark and when Blowtorch exhales he literally breathes fire," she finished.

"That must make talking difficult," the Coronal said, his gaze turning thoughtful as he studied the man on the monitor.

"True, Blowtorch is mute. During a United Nations mission in Africa, his larynx was shattered by a mortar shell."

"How does he keep from blowing himself up?" he asked.

Stepping forward, Megan answered, "it is because of his sweat. Blowtorch actually produces a substance in his sweat glands that retards flame."

"Alright, so how does he put the fires out then?" He questioned, not seeing how sweat would extinguish the massive fires that now filled the screen.

"On Blowtorch's back there are a number of bony projections as well as three such projections rising up off his shoulders. The ones along his spine collect various gasses and components from the atmosphere. While he can produce flammable gas in his stomachs, he is also able to stoke the blaze to greater heights using pure oxygen form those spines, or snuff them out using pure nitrogen, the same way a fire extinguisher does," the Matron explained.

Taking a breath, the Coronal said softly "this Blowtorch is surly a frightful creation." The Matron beamed, not noticing that the words weren't meant as a compliment.

Before any further explanations could be given one of the tech's cry pulled all of their attention back to the action. "Matron! Look at the screen, Weapon X is approaching the battle zone."

"Alright everyone, I want all personnel to report to their stations. Get as many satellites over that area as possible, we aren't going to miss anything this time." The scathing tone made everyone jump to do her bidding. "We'll see who wins this round," she said, her face tight with anger when she remembered the autopsy. Something unusual was going on. Something that didn't make sense, and she'd be damned if she'd lose another weapon without knowing the reason why.

Slammer died of a single blade thrust to the throat. The wound was one that could have been caused by Weapon X she admitted grudgingly, but how? The last image relayed of the battle before Slammer was buried had been of Weapon X hanging from the cliff, his leg a mangled ruin. So how the hell did the beast not only get down from the cliff, but find Slammer in the rubble and stab him just once before her men arrived? It was too precise a strike for a mindless killer beast. This time she wasn't going to rely just on the visuals provided by Blowtorch, no she was going to have eyes all over that hilltop.

* * *

The meeting broke up an hour before dawn. Thomas groaned when someone pounded on the door. The racket of the meeting had kept him up most of the night, and because it was about him he wasn't permitted to attend. But that didn't stop him from being kept awake by the loud voices since his cabin was close to the main building. He hadn't been able to make out what they were saying, but the shouts were loud enough to keep him from sleep. Not long ago there had been a large number of yeas shouted, and not too many nays.

With a grudging sigh, he pulled himself out of bed and went to confront the pack of fools. A hiss hiss slid from his lips when his feet fell on the icy floor. Thomas grumbled, tugging on his jeans and an old sweater that might have been black at one point, but now was just a faded grey. Dressed, he opened the door and gave the group standing outside his home a cold look.

Thomas held his ground, though he wanted to step back in surprise at the sight. Nearly a third of the town stood outside his door, over forty people in all. The Librarian, the town drunk Old Herman, the mayor of the town, Waldo, who was the other town drunk, and leading the pack was Martin the Zen Naturalist.

"What can I do for you folks?" Thomas asked, forcing his voice to remain pleasantly unconcerned.

"You know what you can do for us Swimming Horse? Get out of our town, and take your interments of death with you!" Martin snapped.

"I beg your pardon?" Thomas stared at the short man, whose chest was puffed up with righteousness.

"You heard me, you broke town law by bringing weapons not used for hunting here. The citizens of Second Chance had a vote, and you've been banished, you've got until sunset to get out." Martin said, his blue eyes flashed with high-handed glee as he spoke.

Stepping down onto the frozen ground, the ice burned the soles of his feet, but Thomas ignored the aching pain while he closed the distance between him and Martin. "You didn't come prepared."

"What do you mean we didn't come prepared?" Martin demanded.

"Shouldn't you have pitchforks, torches? No self respecting mob can run the monster out of town without the proper equipment. It's just not good form you know"

The Librarian chuckled, then ducked his head. Thomas's eyes flicked towards the old man, hurt flashed in the chocolate orbs when the Librarian glanced away, showing how his vote went.

"We aren't a mob! We just voted you out, that's all." Martin said sullenly.

"And that vote was unanimous was it?" Thomas shot back.

"It doesn't matter if it wasn't." Martian hissed like an agitated cat. "This town is majority rule, and the majority wants you gone."

"Sounds like mob rule to me." Thomas replied before squaring his shoulders. "I'm not leaving. I haven't done anything wrong, and this is my home too."

Martin's face darkened to an ugly shade of red. "Now don't you be difficult Swimming Horse, you aren't the only one with a gun around here!" Turning to Ben and Jerry he snapped. "Tell him! Tell him what will happen if he doesn't do what we say."

Shuffling his feet, Jerry looked away. Ben stepped forward. "Look, it's nothing personal man but bringing an automatic weapon here that just wasn't cool, you know man? You're scaring folks and breaking the rules, even the doomsday guys don't pack combat weapons."

"Maybe they should." Thomas stated, shifting his weight. His feet were sending sharp stabs of pain up his legs from the cold. "Something's going on up the mountain, something bad, and this is just the begi-"

His words were cut off by a woman screaming as she pointed towards the mountain. The crowd turned as one and saw brilliant flames licking across the top of the mountain. As if it was a sign of doom from the old gods, the crowd panicked and with screams, shouts and curses they fled to the uncertain safety of their homes. Thomas stepped back into his home too, but not to hide. Instead he put on a thick pair of socks, slipped into his heavy boots and threw on his parka before heading back out. The gun that had started the debate of his exile cradled in his arms.

IX faded back into the shadows. It had been effortless to blend into the crowd of riled town folk to observe the proceedings. They were too focused on Thomas to notice the slight boy in their midst. Jade eyes shifted towards the mountain before he vanished back to the cave to inform X that the next test had begun.

Shifting his backpack of supplies higher up on his shoulder, Thomas stepped out of his cabin again. He studied the orange flames that washed across the top of the mountain before they reseeded like the waves of the ocean. He was certain that the behavior was unnatural for fire, and he was sure it had something to do with the Wildman.

"Heya Tommy boy, where you going?" The Librarian's gruff voice halted his steps.

"I'm going up the mountain." Thomas said. "Going to find out what's happening, someone needs to and it might as well be me."

Face pale, the old man glanced at the mountain before looking away. "Look Thomas, the fire is contained, it isn't spreading. We're safe down here, you don't have to go up there." he tried to reason with the stubborn native.

"Fires spread Librarian."

"Tommy-Boy, we don't need that kind of trouble, don't bring it down on our heads." the Librarian pleaded.

Ignoring the old man, Thomas took off at a run. It didn't take long for him to reach the edge of town and to begin the trek up the mountain.

* * *

When IX appeared, X pounced. X barely felt the knife that slammed between his ribs as he growled and sank his teeth into IX's shoulder. The familiar pain of X's teeth kept IX from twisting the blade and shredding the larger weapons heart. Not that it would kill him, but it would take him a few minutes to recover from such a wound, and they didn't have time to spare. His own curiosity about how the town would vote had kept him longer than he anticipated, and now they were late.

Sliding the blade from X's flesh, IX's eyes slid shut while X's tongue bathed the new mark gently in both apology for overacting, and forgiveness for IX's strike. "Enough," IX said, even as his muscles relaxed under the attention. "It is time for the next test. Your target is located on the plateau. Destroy it," IX ordered. With a soft rumble, and one last swipe of his tongue over the deep bite mark, X leapt to his feet, his leg once again whole after his healing sleep was compete.

IX stood and cleaned the blade before he re-sheathed it. Turning on his heel he vanished, leaving X to find his own way to the prey. Bright flames licked over the mountain, and IX was forced to put a shield up to remain close enough to properly observe the battle without being burned. It didn't take long for X appear.

Loping through the woods, X followed the stench of burning pines and fretted. Waking up along had been maddening, and worry kept him restlessly pacing the cave while he waited for IX to reappear. It had only taken a few steps out of the cave to know that wasn't the way IX had left, and without a scent trail to follow, IX was impossible to track. So he'd been forced to wait. Now, the sight of the brilliant fire made his lips peal back in a sharp snarl. What if IX was caught in the flames during the battle?  _End the fight quickly,_  the strange voice caused X to halt in his tracks. His head cocked to the side while he probed his own mind, trying to understand, to ferret out the source of these unnatural thoughts. But it was gone, leaving nothing but the sense of urgency to end the battle swiftly in its wake.

IX studied the fat little man while he waited for X to arrive. It was a curious creature that stood in a pair of tight black shorts made of a fire-proof material and a pair of dark ill fitting boots made of the same. Not a hair grew from his bulbous white flesh and ample love handles hung in folds over the shorts. His skin glistened as if he'd been rubbed down with oil, and IX's fingers itched for a blade when the male inhaled, and inhaled, and inhaled. His pudgy body grew grotesquely large, and the bony projectiles that lined his back looked like the spines of a puffer fish when he inflated. Flames shot out of his mouth with his exhale in a long blazing stream.

X darted around the trees towards the scorching heat. Growling, he scrambled up to the top of a small mound of rocks. The stench of burning things covered any scent IX would have left behind, and that further agitated the large weapon. He didn't know where his mate was, so he couldn't ensure the flames were not shot in that direction.

Whisky colored eyes locked on the strange looking man, and X's nose wrinkled in disgust at the chemical smell the man gave off.  _Shink!_  His blades slid out, and just before he leapt to end the threat, the man turned. X cocked his head when the tiny man began to expand to an alarming degree. The fat man's eyes bulged, and his cheeks burned a bright red while he inhaled. The strange sight threw him off just enough for Blowtorch to strike. A stream of fire crashed into X's chest with enough heat to shatter the tumble of rocks he stood on and sent him careening off the edge of the plateau.

Waddling over to the edge, Blowtorch peered over and saw the scorch marks. A steaming the hole in the snow bank marked the landing place of his prey. Grinning, the man inhaled again before opening his mouth wide to vomit out another blazing stream of fire. Steam exploded around him after the snow bank was incinerated. Finally letting up, Blowtorch stared down at the scorched and shattered ground, frowning when no shining skeleton met his questing gaze.

Scrambling through the super heated steam, X groped blindly until he reached a corps of pine trees. Swiftly he dug under the low hanging branches to hide, and rubbed harshly at his eyes. The right one opened with a sick tearing sound, but the left remained fused shut from the blistering heat. Each breath was agony in his scorched lungs, but he ignored it in favor of scanning the cliff edge for his attacker. Nothing, just the windswept edge and the wailing wind that was not the same as the keening howl of air being sucked into the fat man. Again, he tried to open his eyes. The left snapped open, but his vision remained foggy.

The sound of crunching footsteps alerted X to his enemy's position, but before he could take advantage of the information another wave of fire crashed into his position causing the tree he'd been sheltering under to explode in a flash of brilliant yellow. Leaping to the side, X was pelted with burning remains, and shards of wood lodged into his flesh like knives. Grunting, he took off over the icy terrain while blazing balls of hungry flames chased after him like machine gun fire. They hissed furiously when they struck snow and exploded in angry shards of super heated stone when they found solid ground.

Rabbi-like, X darted left and right to outrun the endless blasts until the ground came to an abrupt end. Without hesitation, X flung himself over the cliff edge. He twisted lithely, and sank his claws into the sheer rock face and was almost pulled free by the force of his momentum. Heavy muscles bunching, he began clawing along the side of the cliff like a spider. The roar of the weapon's inhalation reached X, and a waterfall of flame cascaded over the edge of the cliff, scorching the rock and causing great gouts of steam to burn over his flesh when the snow exploded under the blazing heat. Ignoring the agony, X swung from one claw and narrowly missed being engulfed by the attack. Claws held as he began moving again, until he was in a position behind his attacker.

Another blast of flaming gasses rolled over the cliff edge, and X leapt onto the plateau and dove behind a tall stand of towering oaks.  _The tree!_  The strange voice roared in his mind, and X reacted. Adamantium claws slashed through the massive oak as if it was butter, and the enormous tree separated with a loud snap before falling straight towards the fat, fire-breathing weapon.

The crashing sound alerted Blowtorch to the danger. With startling grace, the fat man whipped around and belched out a massive ball of fire. The giant oak exploded like a stick of dynamite. The concussion smashed into X, and he threw up his arms to protect his face from the jagged spears of flaming wood that rained over him. A blast of agonizing flame slammed into his chest, throwing him backwards and exposing him to the Blowtorch's attention.

The force of the jet of fire sent X careening down into a shallow ravine while the remains of the oak tree continued to rain from the sky. Blood poured from hundreds of wounds when he finally crashed to a halt, his legs pinned by the crushing weight of the shattered trunk. Every breath weased from his scorched lungs, and X tasted the thick clots of blood lining his throat when he tried to cough. While he fought to clear his lungs, the fat man dashed forward. A triumphant crooked grin curled his lips as he stood before the fallen weapon.

X snarled, flashing teeth stained black with blood and the burning, at the Blowtorch when the fat man's lips spread wide. He began to inhale with enough force to cause X's ears to pop under the force. The man's bulging eyes locked on Weapon X, and he trusted his face forward to spit a steady stream of fire over the pinned man.

Blue flames licked over X's body like a lover, and agony roared through him when his flesh was incinerated by the enormous heat. Cells boiled, muscle melted away and organs exploded only to grow anew when his phenomenal metabolism increased to compensate for the massive destruction. Finally the physical damage reached an unknown tipping point, and the retentive powers hit critical mass. His flesh vanished, only to reappear phoenix-like and vanish again, over and over.

As his flesh disintegrated and reappeared only one thing remained constant, the searing mindless torment. X's mouth opened wide, but the endless flames devoured his tongue before he could scream. Still his mouth stretched wide and an unearthly howl of anguish was ripped from the depths of his being. The tortured howls resounded over the blackened mountain top and drifted down to the small town like the wailing of a banshee.

* * *

The grip IX had on his knife was so tight his bones ached with it when the screams tore through his heart. Orders kept his muscles locked in place. He was not permitted to interfere, and nothing could override that, but the sound clawed at his mind and made something in him thrashed against the chains that held him back. The fire seemed endless as blazing green eyes watched. Each halting breath made his slender body vibrate with the force of holding himself back.

Subtle movement, even with his entire being focused on X, the shifting of shadows where movement shouldn't be tore IX's gaze away from the bitter sight to lock on the form of someone moving in the underbrush. He watched the figure get into position, and continued watching when it brought up the gun and aimed it at the fire breathing weapon.  _I am not permitted to interfere directly, but…I am not required to keep anyone else from doing so,_ IX thought, and deliberately ignored the shape, doing nothing to stop what was about to occur.

* * *

Reaching the summit was more difficult than Thomas imagined. The avalanche obliterated the old trail, and he'd been forced to find a new way up. More than once, he was forced to turn back when he came to a dead end, and he had to transverse a twenty foot stretch of sheer cliff face without the proper equipment, but he made it back to the old trail above the area of destruction.

The fires continued roaring overhead, and when he reached the top of the mountain, Thomas saw a large oak begin to fall only to explode into a million pieces. Cursing a blue streak, he dove for cover. Choking on smoke, Thomas stood and scrambled up the last part of the trail before stopping dead in his tracks. He flicked the safety off the Cult Commando and stared incredulously at the unbelievable sight. Blinking hard, he frowned when the vision remained the same. A short fat man in swimming shorts  _breathing fire_  at a log.

Then the high wail of a human screaming cut through his heart, and he saw it wasn't a log the fat man was burning.

_The Wildman_.

His eyes darkened as he watched the Wildman's flesh blacken while he writhed with the agony of the damned. There was no reason for Thomas to take a side in this fight. He had no notion of who was in the right and who was wrong; hell he didn't even know what was going on. What he did know was that one man was hurting another, and he reacted out of instinct.

Shifting into a better position, Thomas lined up the shot. The fat fire-breathing monstrosity didn't notice; he was too intent on his victim. The first shot tore a large chunk of flesh out of the fat man's neck, sending a splash of crimson down the flabby white skin. With a hiccupping gurgle, the gout of fire sputtered. The second slammed into the man's chest. Like a small bomb, the fat man erupted in a massive explosion of flesh and blood.

The blast roared around the clearing, and the shock wave crushed Thomas, sending him crashing into a tree. Darkness tore through his senses, and Thomas slumped, unconscious, to the ground.

* * *

The blast shook the plateau, flattening trees and sending snow and shattered chunks of flesh skyward to fall in a gore soaked rain. As the deafening sound faded, the wild winds stilled. Two fat legs wobbled at the center of the blast radius before they toppled over, the ends still smoldering.

A loud roar shattered the silence when large muscular arms broke through the debris. Straining, he pulled himself free and gave the smoking limbs a dismissive snort as he drank in the fresh air. Shifting through the scents, he still couldn't find IX's and he hoped the small weapon survived the blast. A familiar scent caught his attention, and X followed it.

A soft clicking noise caught X's attention and he turned. His lips curled into a snarl of disgust at the sight of the fat man's head and upper torso sprawled on the ground. Somehow, the head was still alive, his grey eyes open wide and flicking from side to side as his mouth opened and closed spasmodically. The clicking nose was coming from the man's throat, and X saw the strange claws glinting, revealed by the bullet hole in his throat. Another savage snarl curled his lips and X lashed out. His claws came down in an unforgiving arch, severing the man's head in two.

Turning, X heard a low moan. It didn't take long for him to find the hunter sprawled in a shallow depression. His parka was shredded, but the remains of his backpack clung stubbornly to his limp shoulders. Crouching down, he studied the unconscious male.

IX appeared next to him, and X slashed at the smaller male. IX vanished, leaving the blades to pass through empty air. Reappearing on the other side of the fallen hunter, IX bent down. A blade glittered in his palm when the knife descended. He would give the hunter a clean death. He owed him that much for saving X when he hadn't been able to.

_The hunter saved us._  Growling in annoyance, X's hand snapped out and caught IX delicate wrist before he could finish the downward stroke. Sharp green eyes darted up to lock on whisky brown. A low rumbling growl vibrated form X's lips, and IX's own curved down when he studied the larger weapon and realized that X would fight him on this if he pushed.

Twisting his wrist, IX broke X's grip. But, instead of attacking again he stood. "Do as you wish with him then," he said, his voice as bland as always before he turned on his heel and vanished. Huffing at his mate's antics, X turned again to the hunter. The man moaned, and his eyes slid open sluggishly before falling shut again.

Huffing, X slipped his arms under the injured man and lifted him. A small sound of pain met the action and X gave a small rumbling growl that attempted to be reassuring before he set off towards the cave and his waiting mate.


	10. Expendable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IX is pronounced 9. Both weapons are part of the Weapon's Plus Program which actually began with Captain America. He was the original Weapon I. The lab techs and higher ups began calling X as the letter due to the Roman Numerals, but IX is still called 9.

"They wanted to serve their country, become heroes, see the world. But they were expendable, discarded like broken toys." – Mark Piotrowski

* * *

"Perhaps it was for the best that the civilian interfered," the Voice soothed. "The man saved Weapon X from destruction after all." A low snort met the pacifying remark.

Keys clattered when the Director pulled up the desired data. "Don't be foolish, as you can see from the biological monitors, Weapon X's metabolism is well beyond anything we've ever encountered. It was  _adapting_. Prior tests showed that its healing factor took time, yes much shorter time than an average human" the word average was sneered, "but it still took time. Anywhere from seconds to hours depending on the degree of damage inflicted upon it. As we know, no damage done to it during the testing phase proved fatal, but grievous wounds still put it out of commission for the amount of time needed for them to heal."

Steepling his fingers, the Director's hawk like gaze rested on the footage of the flesh being incinerated from adamantium bones only to reappear an instant later. "The fire wasn't destroying it, but forging X into an even stronger Weapon. Had the foolish civilian not interfered, Weapon X would have overcome the effects of that over grown lighter and easily defeated it."

"What of the civilian?"

The Director scoffed. "There's no way the  _good Samaritan_  survived his heroism," he said scathingly, a dark grin twisting his features. "Not at ground zero. The remains would have been difficult to locate with bits of Blowtorch scattered liberally over the area." His smile faded into a contemplative look as he brought up schematics on the troublesome little town.

"The civilians have seen too much, and meddled one too many times. It's time to isolate the population until they can be dealt with. They've witnessed more than they should, and if they choose to flee, who knows what damage they could cause spreading tales," the Director decided, reviewing the satellite images.

"What should be done?" the Voice asked.

"Here," the Director marked a point on the map. "This is the only trail that leads into or out of the valley the town is situated in. The trail passes through this narrow canyon. Inform Major Sallow to dynamite the passage at this point, sealing off the town until we've finished the field tests."

"Won't the population be suspicious?"

"No, there is a storm coming. Have the Major make it look like an avalanche took out the pass," he decided before turning his attention back to the field reports.

* * *

Cold emerald eyes studied the mouth of the cave when the large shadow shifted its burden before entering. While waiting for X to return, IX had cleared out the remains of the deer from their cave after carving off a few remaining scraps of meat to roast over the newly rekindled fire. A low groan came from the hunter when X set him gingerly onto the pallet of deer hide that made up their sleeping place. Warm firelight danced hypnotically over stone walls while the scent of cooking meat filled the small confines of the cave.

The civilian wasn't a threat in the state he was in, not that he ever presented much of a threat. But, as grievously wounded as he was, IX was content to ignore him along with the large weapon. His apparent inattention was proved false when X casually stripped the bag from the Native and tossed it to the smaller male, who snatched it out of the air without bothering to glance up. Sifting through the contents of the sack revealed a number of MREs, and IX tore open a packet of beef stew before drinking down the flavorless contents of the Meal Ready to Eat.

Whisky colored eyes locked on the smooth column of IX's pale throat, and he couldn't suppress the low rumble of desire that trickled from his lips. Finishing the MRE, IX gave his fellow weapon a glance, before tossing him two of the packets. Sitting back on his haunches, X followed the short male's lead and tore open a pack before drinking down the sludge in one long swallow. His nose wrinkled with disgust, but one searing look from IX caused him to dutifully eat the second.

The snack finished, X turned again to the unconscious hunter. With gruff gentleness, he stripped the shredded parka from Thomas before removing a thick well-worn sweater and drab grey undershirt, revealing the wound that caused the heavy blood scent in the air. Lodged in Thomas's ribcage was a nine inch splinter of wood. Primitive thoughts of weakened prey lurked in his mind but under those currents the other stirred.  _Not prey, not food, friend…ally…pack._ The sluggish words twisted through, him along with the strong pulse of protectiveness that had first caused him to halt IX's attack.

A low growl curled his lips as he studied the wounded hunter. X didn't know how to fix such terrible wounds. Shifting on the balls of his feet, he tried to prod the other in his mind for the answer, sensing on some level that it would know what to do.  _IX_ , the voice breathed through his mind, tired, fading now that there wasn't a threat to keep it anchored.

Turning, X locked eyes with the slight male half hidden in the shifting shadows cast by the fire. Chips of perfect jade studied him and X gave a soft whine, causing the eyes to narrow. Even with weaker senses, IX was too familiar with the sharp metallic tang of blood to mistake it for anything else. He didn't need to see the wound to know that if left untreated the hunter would bleed out. That would solve the problem of the interloper who had interfered, but another plaintive whine forced IX reluctantly to his feet. He owed the man a debt for his actions in defending X when he hadn't been permitted to do so.

_This is a mistake, he_ should _have been terminated the moment he set foot on the field of battle,_  the programmed obedience made IX's steps falter in their smooth glide. IX was obedient to his Wielder in all things, but a new loyalty whispered seductively though his mind.  _The order was to observe, not to interfere, you were not ordered to report upon the activities of non-combatants, you were only to observe and report on the field testing of Weapon X. Your objective was fulfilled, new orders have not been issued._ The logic for this borderline insubordination was flawless. Should his Wielder request information on the hunter, it would be freely given, and should he be requested to terminate the hunter's life, then it would be done. But…he didn't have to  _volunteer_ information.

The harsh leash of obedience satisfied, IX stalked forward silent as a shadow, before kneeling by the much larger weapon. X gave a soft rumble of satisfaction, and bent to nuzzle IX's neck, not biting, just taking in his tiny mate's unique scent. Without thought, IX's head tilted, exposing more of his throat to X while his cold gaze studied the deep wound. Lips, and the slightest edge of teeth scraped along the soft skin, and goose bumps rose along IX's arms, but his scent remained painfully indifferent to the touch.

The lack of arousal kept X's burning hunger leashed, but left the large weapon aching with desire. "I need to focus if your objective is to keep this one alive." The apathetic words reminded X the hunter's life was still in the balance, and IX had little interest in maintaining it. X huffed, and sat back on his heels before nudging IX forward with one large hand. A ghost of a frown, or perhaps just the uncertain light, touched the marble like features. IX turned back to the dying human.

Leaning forward, IX placed his delicate hands on the native's chest, close but not quite touching the stake. A deep rumble of displeasure sounded at his back, and IX's head tilted without turning to look at the agitated weapon. "Shall I let him die then?" He could hear X shift behind him, but there was no further protests when he returned his full attention to the unconscious man.

Sharp green eyes narrowed when IX brought the full force of his conscious down onto the wound. Healing others was difficult, not like healing himself. Somehow, the power healed his own injuries without his conscious effort. IX found through trial and error that he could heal others, but if his attention waivered before the task was done, things could become much worse for the subject of his focus. His power was like a laser. While he focused, it remained a perfect beam of pure energy that could repair even grievous wounds, but if his focus slipped the beam expanded leaving devastation in its wake.

The world fell away while IX's focus narrowed down to the long shard of wood, and the body it impaled. With the iron clad will of a master surgeon, IX drove his power into the body beneath his hands. Magic melted into the flesh before pooling beneath the point of the stake lodged deep in the left lung of the hunter. With slow meditative breaths, IX directed the power to begin healing, and another tendril of pure energy nudged the tip of the stake. Centimeter by bloody centimeter, the wood was pushed out of the flesh from within as the wound healed in the wake of its departure.

Time became a meaningless thing while IX continued the delicate task of mending organ, arteries, vessels, muscle, and bone. He didn't notice the sweat sheeting his skin and dripping onto the man he was trying to save, or the way X loomed behind him like a guardian shadow. All that existed was his power, the wound, and keeping the energy under control. IX's entire existence was that of destruction, fine tuning that vicious power into something that healed was no easy task.

The clatter of wood on stone drew IX back to himself, and he withdrew the power back into himself. A quarter sized diamond of shiny scar tissue marked where the spear of wood nearly ended the hunter's life. The unconscious man took a halting breath, then half of another before his chest fell still. X growled when he heard the native's heart stutter to a stop. Another near frown touched IX's bow shaped lips, and he reached out again. His hand rested half an inch above Thomas's chest, just above his heart. A spark, like a miniscule bolt of lightning jumped from IX's palm and the body jolted, arching up towards the splayed hand before falling back.

* * *

"What happened?" The words held the brittle edge of someone who was trying not to scream, drawing them out in a low hiss. Orange clad techs around the room hunched their shoulders at the careful sound. They knew the Matron well, and her fury was devastating when roused. The angrier she got, the more controlled her tone became. Her blue eyes seethed like the sea in the midst of a great storm and the silence seemed to echo with her demand.

One of the techs quelled even deeper into his seat when he spotted the source of the unfortunate incident. "M-Matron?" He squeaked when he felt her attention zero in on him like a hawk sighting an exposed mouse. "Here," he choked out.  _Oh God, she isn't going to like this, not one bit,_ the Tech thought, zooming in on the recorded image. He brought into focus a local, a  _civilian,_  who'd managed to destroy one of the Matron's prized weapons.

Stalking forward, the sharp crack of her heels on the floor was the only sound in the large room, and everyone held their breath. The Matron stared at the frozen image. "Play it forward," she whispered and with a hand that shook, the Tech complied. Two bullets…two messily bullets, and her beautiful work was in ruins. The blast was extensive to say the least, and left behind such heat and smoke that the images on the ground were lost to their surveillance.  _It is too much to hope that the damnable Weapon was destroyed in the explosion_. "Send a retrieval team to gather the remains, and to confirm if the target was neutralized."

"Ma'am, what should we do if the target is still on site and active?"

Burning sapphire eyes locked on the airman, "I suggest you shot it and try your best not to die." She said coldly before turning her back on him. They all knew that bullets were less than useless, and that fire was also off the table. The best the retrieval team could hope for was the Weapon abandoning the area after the battle had so abruptly ended.

The Director informed her of the marginal risk the small township of drifters represented, though his briefing had been strictly on the risk of exposure of the Weapon X and Null programs to the eyes of the Public. But, he'd failed to recognize the possibility of actual interference on behalf of Weapon X.  _I failed to realize it as well, and Blowtorch lost his life because of my oversight._ Manicured nails tapped against her folded arms as her mind circled the problem.  _The town has thrown their lot in with Weapon X, we'll have to give them a reason to cast off that sentiment._ She decided and a cruel smile, one full of budding vengeance, curved her red lips.

"Activate Thorne."

* * *

A second jolt, and a third. Thomas's eyes snapped open. He fell back choking as he attempted to drag in a lung full of air. Harsh barking coughs filled the cave when the native hacked up the blood that clotted in his lung from the now healed puncture. When he could finally breathe without feeling like he was about to keel over, Thomas looked around.  _Where the hell am I?_  He wondered. The last memory he had was of shooting the fire breathing freak. Brown eyes widened when they landed on the very naked Wildman crouched a few feet away from him.

Even in the uncertain light of the fire, Thomas could see that the man was whole and healthy.  _Hell, he's still got all his hair,_  he thought in bemusement. How anyone, even someone who could heal like the Wildman, survive the killer fire Thomas didn't know. Looking at the man, he couldn't see a single mark left over from the incineration, not a singed hair or shiny burn scar. If it wasn't for the terrible bone deep ache that only a good explosion could cause, Thomas would have thought he fell, hit his head on a rock, and dreamt the whole damn thing up. The resounding pain, and the singed smell of his own long ebony hair gave lie to that belief before it could take root.

A shifting shadow behind the Wildman caught the hunter's startled gaze and poisoned green gems seemed to consume his vision as he fell into eyes colder than any serpents.  _The boy_ …no not a boy he decided as he managed to take in the rest of the face that housed those brilliant, if terrifying, eyes. Short yes, and delicate of frame with fine bones, but the face lacked the roundness of childhood. The features were refined and void of expression. His was a beauty that transcended gender, but it wasn't the sort of loveliness that inspired thoughts of softness. It was the sort of beauty that poison dart frogs had, sleek, with brilliant, vivid color that belied their poisonous natures.  _He is deadly_ , the thought wasn't a pretty one. It wasn't difficult for Thomas to recall the thrown blade, this one's blade, death halted only by chance. How had he cheated death a second time?

Thomas's wandering thoughts were cut off when a low growl forcefully returned his attention to the Wildman. The feral man shifted and backed up at the same time, forcing the smaller male deeper into his shadow and further away from Thomas. A soft huff of breath whispered through the cave when the short male fell back another few steps to pacify the Wildman. Blinking, Thomas watched the odd behavior and tried to figure out what the hell was going on.

Another push. This time the sound of flesh smacking flesh cracked through the silence when the short one gave the much larger man a hard swat. "Enough, you wanted him saved, it is done. I do not require your protection from a half dead civilian." The words were blandly spoken, unlined with anger or frustration. A frown tugged Thomas's lips while he mulled over that revelation. The Wildman saved him? Why? And why was the other one's tone so void of emotion? Any man would become defensive at the thought of needing protection, especially one as short as he was.  _Guys like that almost always have a Napoleon complex._ Thomas could only imagine how much crap the kid got in school, with his pretty looks and short stature he must have gotten thrashed often.

Then his frazzled thoughts were snagged by the title of civilian.  _Shit! These guys are military? No way, even the Canadian military has height requirements, and psych evaluations. Those twisted monsters after them smack of mad scientists though, and the brat isn't normal, neither of them are._ He mused remembering how the youth had appeared on the cliff and vanished with the Wildman in tow. They looked normal enough, at least when the Wildman wasn't waiving his claws around. They couldn't possibly be from the same group that spawned the fire breathing menace or gun boy could they?

"What are you?" Thomas asked, his voice rough after his near death experience.

"That information is classified." IX replied indifferently. X continued crowding him, herding him further back into the cave and away from the now conscious hunter. The instant the native's eyes had snapped open, X jerked IX behind him and hadn't shifted an inch, forcing the short male to remain hidden behind him. The behavior was illogical, and IX was quickly losing his tolerance for humoring the larger weapon.

A blade glittered in the firelight as it lashed out, cutting a shallow arc across X's bulky shoulders, earning a low whining growl. Ignoring the startled gasp from the hunter IX tilted his head. "Be still," he demanded. The blade darted out again, making a second cut. X's muscles twitched, but he didn't move when his small mate cut him. Jade eyes studied the smooth, healed skin. X's healing factor had always been swift, but nothing like this. The wounds hadn't even bled. "Your healing factor has increased," he stated, trailing his fingers over the whole flesh. X trembled beneath the soft touch.

"Why are you here?" Thomas tried again, filing away the revelation and the warning. Small he may be, but if he was willing to lash out as his own companion, then there was nothing keeping him from turning his sharp attention on Thomas.

"Classified."

"Are you part of the military?"

"Classified."

"What's your name?"

"Classified."

Thomas ground his teeth in frustration. Each reputation of the word was as free of emotion as the first, and he suspected that he could ask any and every question under the sun and receive the same uninterested answer.  _I bet he'd be a right bastard during an interrogation_.

"Fine, I'll just call you two Wildman and Tiny," he snarked, wariness over the quick knife skills of Tiny forgotten in the attempt to get a rise out of the green eyed man.

"It doesn't matter," empty emerald eyes studied the shirtless native. The pink diamond shaped scar wasn't the only one to mar the coppery skin. There was a deep slash across his chest where he'd met the business end of a knife wielder, and shrapnel scars were littered over his left arm and shoulder. Before IX had begun the healing he'd noticed the tarnished dog tags on the man's neck that read:  _Thomas Swimming Horse, Lieutenant, United States Army, Blood Type O, Religion: None._

A single attempt to get around X earned another ragged snarl. He could have forced the issue and asserted his control, but the battle wasn't one he cared to engage in. X wanted this man to live, not IX. "What is your status? Does your chest hurt?" A verbal assessment would have to do. The man hadn't fallen over dead yet, so the healing was most likely successful. IX's only worry was blood clots in the vascular system. With X acting so oddly, he wouldn't be able to save Thomas if he flat lined again.

"My chest?" Thomas asked, vaguely recalling the searing agony of a deep wound before he blacked out. Glancing down, he stared dumbly at the sleek new scar. Poking it revealed the healed flesh was still tender in a way that he'd never experienced before. The strange sensation made him shiver when the skin seemed to yield more readily that flesh normally did. Then he noticed the stick, still caked with drying blood.

Shakily, Thomas picked up the dagger long spear of wood. Questions flew through his mind faster than he could catch hold of. He stared at the inches of crimson that painted the wood. "What…how?" He said faintly, realizing how close he'd skirted death this time.

"That information is classified. The wound is healed, but it will be fragile for a few days until the new muscle develops to match the surrounding tissue." That wasn't how it worked when IX's magic healed himself, but the few experiments he'd conducted taught him that the healing left the muscle weakened as if the newly formed tissue was that of a child instead of an adult when he performed it on others.

Turning his attention back to X, he said "he will survive. If you want him to remain alive I should return him to his cabin. We can't be seen with him." The words held the slightest edge of warning. IX would go along with this foolishness for the time being, but if his Wielder realize that the hunter lived, and gave the order, the man's life would be forfeit regardless of X's feelings on the matter.

X turned and stood in one smooth animalistic motion and grabbed IX. With a base growl, he sank his teeth into the delicate scar laced shoulder.

Thomas cringed back, expecting to see the tiny male torn apart by the fierce predator, or at least to witness a bloody battle between the two. But, to his shock, the short one relaxed under the brutal treatment. They stood like that for endless moments with the wind howled ominously outside the cave.  _That's a hell of a storm, no way would we survive if we left now._

"Enough," the word was still void of emotion, but it held the sharp tang of command that made Thomas want to stand and salute.  _Which of them is the leader and which the follower_ , Thomas wondered as he watched them interact. It was impossible to discern who held the reigns because the pair seemed to switch power with a smooth intricacy that he'd never seen before. The inability, or unwillingness to speak on the part of the Wildman didn't seem to hinder communication. Thomas realized that most of the pair's communication stemmed from body language too subtle to be easily read by outsiders.  _They are a formidable pair, no wonder the Government's after them._

X gave a low growl before he bathed the deep bit, and released his tiny mate. Emerald eyes pierced Thomas when IX's focus returned to their unwanted guest. "Move to the back of the cave, away from the light of the fire." The quiet words forced the native shakily to his feet when the command in them demanded obedience. Even though the major wound had been healed, he could tell that the non-life threatening wounds remained. Thomas bit back a whimper when each shuffling step caused the injuries littering his battered body to flare up and inform him how lucky he was to be alive.

Whisky colored eyes glared him with the cold calculation of a predator eyeing a limping deer, and Thomas kept his own eyes on the ground submissively. He didn't know what happened between falling unconscious and waking up, but apparently the Wildman wasn't quite as keen on his survival now that he wasn't about to fall over dead. The eight and a half steps it took to escape the grip of the light felt like miles, and by the time he was fully sheathed in shadows, the skin along his back was crawling with anticipation of those wicked claws slashing him to bits.

IX shifted, bringing X's heated gaze back to him. Stepping forward, the much shorter male held his hand up towards X's face and remained still as the large weapon's face dipped to nuzzle his palm and drink in the reassuring scent. He didn't flinch at the dampness of X's tongue darting out to taste his skin, permitting the large male such liberties to reaffirm their partnership. IX was uncertain why X was such a touch based creature, but he learned it was easier to put up with these displays, than to attempt to fight them. The bite on his shoulder ached fiercely but it was a pain he'd become familiar with, and almost took comfort in.

Thomas watched the exchange out of the corner of his eye and couldn't quite hide the slight smirk. They were a strange pair, but they seemed to fit well together.

"I will return momentarily." IX said in his soft monotone before he turned and paced over to Thomas. Another low growl escaped the larger male, but this time IX ignored it even when Thomas flinched at the lethal sound. He was so focused on the Wildman that he didn't see the small hand reach out and touch him on the shoulder before they vanished with a sharp crack.

* * *

Cursing up a storm, Thomas staggered to his feet and almost slipped in the puddle of vomit left over from whatever the hell that kid did. The brat vanished after they appeared in Thomas's house. That fact alone made him feel dizzy with terror.  _A crazy robotic killer teleporting kid can get into my house, oh joy._ With a power like that, there was no longer any mystery in the Government trying to get their hands on the pair. Hell, just the kid alone would be damn useful as an assassin.

He moaned and began the tedious task of cleaning up the floor. The activity made his wounds scream in protest, but Thomas wasn't about to let the mess just sit there stinking up the place. Just after he finished up and was about to crawl into bed to sleep for the next dozen years or so, someone knocked on his barred door. "Damn it," he hissed, snagging a sweater and painstakingly tugged it over his head. It was tempting to ignore the knocking, but with all the shouting he'd done earlier it wasn't likely that whoever was out there would believe he wasn't home.

Opening the door he found the Librarian standing in his ragged overcoat and rubbing his hands together to keep them warm in the cold morning chill.

"So am I being kicked out again?" Thomas said with cold neutrality before giving the old man a piercing look.

"No, no nothing like that Thomas. We saw the explosion, and it looks like the pass has been blocked by an avalanche due to the storm." The words were edged with worry, and the old man fingered his beard. "I know you went up the mountain. We're all stuck here now, and if you don't know anything well that's fine old boy, just means you're as lost as the rest of us. But, Thomas if you do know something,  _anything,_  then you ought to share that with the rest of us. We all live here and good or bad, we need to know what's coming," the Librarian pleaded.

Thomas rubbed at one of the scratches on his forearm uncomfortably at the old man's declaration.

"You know something," the Librarian said with conviction. "Now, how about I make up some breakfast at the long house and you can sit down with the rest of us and tell us what's going on," he coaxed.

With a low sigh, Thomas nodded. "Right, give me half an hour to get cleaned up. Eggs and bacon,  _American_  bacon you hear? None of that Canadian bullshit." he grumbled under his breath, the light teasing helped to alleviate some of the tension before he shut the door.

* * *

Twelve year old Rachel had been fetching some water from the well when she overheard the conversation between the Librarian and Thomas. Bright inquisitive eyes hidden behind thick glasses sparkled as she hustled back to her guardian's house to deliver the water. Her mother had come to Second Chase twelve years ago, pregnant and alone. She'd died not long after giving birth to the healthy young girl, and the community banded together to help raise the little sun sprite.

"Nana, I'll be back later," She yelled after putting the bucket of water down and vanished back out the door before Mrs. Carlyle had a chance to protest. Her friend Thomas was back. She knew something had happened and wanted to know all the details.

The adults would send her away if they saw her, so the small book worm of a girl tucked herself into a gap between the shelves that held dusty copies of  _Reader's Digest_ , and a teetering stack of magazines called  _People_. While she waited for the adults to gather, Rachel snagged the top magazine as she pushed her horn-rimmed glasses up her nose and began leafing through the pages. It was full of pictures of people she didn't know doing things she didn't understand, but her hungry young mind absorbed the content easily.

Work boots clomped over the rough wood floor, alerting the young girl to the men's arrival. Peeking out of a small gap in the books, Rachel ducked when one of the men glanced in her direction. She didn't want her hiding spot to be found before she got a chance to hear Thomas's story!

* * *

With a weary sigh, Thomas finished the last of his coffee. He felt like a dish rag that had been rung out. "That's what happened up there, any questions?" Thomas asked, a headache was building behind his eyes when the men situated around the table looked at him like he'd gone insane. Ben and Jerry, two individuals who lived and breathed conspiracy theories looked like they were teetering between stark disbelieve and utter panic. Jesse Lee was sitting with his jaw gaping like a cow that had been hit over the head with a frying pan. The Librarian stared off in the middle distance, and digested the fantastical tale.

"So, just like that you shot the guy?" Marvin demanded incredulously.

"Yes." Thomas said. "I shot him twice before the fat fire-breathing bastard exploded."

"Why? He wasn't doing anything to you," Marvin countered.

"To me? You're right, he wasn't doing anything to me," Thomas agreed. "But, he was burning the Wildman, a guy who saved my life."

"So let me get this straight," Martian continued in a condescending tone. "You took a side in a fight you had no business in? For the love of God Thomas, you're out of control!" He barked, throwing up his hands in disgust.

"That's enough Martian, any one of us would do the same," Ben interrupted, cutting off the tirade before the short man could really get going. The balding mountain man had shed his sealskin coat but kept the fur cap to cover his bare head. "Hell, if I saw a man in nothing but leather undershorts out in the woods breathing fire I would have shot him just for being fucking weird."

"Oh yeah? Well you're weird Ben! You and your brother Jerry. Should I shot you because of it?" Martian shot back.

"You could try," Jerry growled as he gave the pacifist a look that quelled him in his seat.

"Come on guys, this is totally wacked," Bill Lyons declared, thumping the table with one beefy fist. "Tommy-Boy, you probably slipped on the ice and dreamt the whole thing up."

Pointing a thick finger at Bill, Jesse Lee said "how do you explain the explosion then? You saw it too, not to mention the heavy gun fire before that. We all heard it, you saw the fire. This isn't a dream."

Turning his eyes to Thomas, the old Vet said calmly, "I don't know about the rest of you lot, but I believe him. Thomas never lied to me and I doubt he'd start now about something like this."

"No, Army boy wouldn't lie, just bring illegal weapons into the community!" Martian sulked.

"Oh come off it Martian, it's not like this is San Francisco." Bill said crossly.

While the men bickered among themselves, the Librarian thought over everything Thomas said. When the other settled down the old man spoke "So, you said this Wildman helped you, saved your life? Did he speak to you? What did he say?"

Shifting his weight, Thomas paused. This was the part he needed to be careful about. "We didn't communicate exactly. It was more like when I met him the first time, and we could have ended up fighting over the deer but in the end he took what he wanted and left the rest."

"So you didn't speak to each other?" The Librarian said skeptically.

"I don't know, after the blast I was pretty out of it, we might have spoke but I don't recall. All I know is that the Wildman helped me survive," he lied. "If he hadn't taken me into his cave I would have died in the blizzard."

"Just wait a minute now, this 'wild man'" Martian made the air quotes to go with the words. "Is undoubtedly a fugitive or something. Why else would the military be after him? He did something terrible. Not to mention you said the guy had metal claws coming out of his hands. I highly doubt those are for decoration."

Snorting, Jerry took a long swig of coffee before muttering into his cup. "Yeah, not like the Government ever persecutes innocent people."

Everyone laughed except Martian. "What's so funny?" he demanded. "We have a wack job with metal claws wandering around the mountain waiting to kill us in our sleep! There's nothing funny about that!" he said shrilly.

"Relax Mar-"

"No! Don't you get it? We're trapped here, the pass is closed, and there's a crazy man with half the Canadian Military after him!" He shouted, desperate to make the group understand the gravity of the situation.

"There's no need to panic." The Librarian said sternly. "The military is focused on the Wildman, and the man hasn't shown any inclination of coming down here. So I say we just leave well enough alone now."

"Amen" Bill grunted after he stood. "Thanks for the breakfast old man," the aging tattooed biker said before he headed for the door. The other men followed suit, but Thomas remained behind. He rested his head on his hands, and thought over the conversation. Just telling them about the Wildman had been enough, Thomas thought. He hadn't brought up the teleporter. Bad enough they were worried over the threat the Wildman posed, if he told them about the little assassin that couldn't be kept out, there would have been panic for sure.

* * *

Rachel's sleep was fitful that night when she dreamed about the fire breathing man (who became a fire breathing dragon) and the Wildman. After the nightmares, the annoying sound of Mrs. Carlyle's rooster at the crack of dawn was a relief. She wasn't sure if she believed what Thomas said, but after night fell it seemed far more likely than it had in the light of day. The weak morning light helped banish her fears as she yawned and stretched.

She gave a squawk when her bare feet met the freezing floor, and she shoved them into her fur lined slippers. Shivering from the cold, Rachel trudged over to the fire and gave the embers as vigorous stir with the poker before adding more wood.

Once the cabin was warm again, she crept down the hall and peaked into Aunt Ellie's room. The ailing old woman was sleeping comfortably, and Big Rita was slumped in the chair next to the bed. Her gentle snores filled the room. The little girl didn't have the heart to wake them, so she backed out of the room and closed the door.

Rachel tried to brew some tea, but discovered that all the fresh water had been used to do the dishes last night. With a sigh she pulled on a pair of jeans, and threw a sweater on over her night shirt before putting on her snow boots and parka. On her way out the door, she snagged the water buckets.

The morning was bitingly cold, and the thin sunlight scratched at the bottom of the early morning sky. Her breath formed white plumes as she made the short walk to the well at the center of the town. Heavy clouds hung on the horizon, promising another storm, and the only sound to be heard was the soft crunch of her boots in the snow. Rachel shivered at the lonely sound. It was always strange to be the only one awake in the town.

Finally she made it to the well. It wasn't a well in the traditional sense, just two pumps facing opposite directions on a cement platform. Rachel set the buckets down and knocked the ice off the head of the spout with a hammer attached to the fountain for that purpose. The loud clang, clang, clang echoed eerily through the still morning air.

When the pump was free of ice, she gave the rusty handle a few good pumps to get the water flowing. It didn't take long for the sloshing water to fill the two buckets. Her task compete, Rachel was about to pick up the heavy containers when a shadow fell over her. Turning, she gasped at the stranger standing behind her.

"Don't be afraid little one," he said with a warm smile.

"I'm not afraid" Rachel replied, trying to hide the way her breath quickened in surprise at the sight of the man. "Just startled, we don't get a lot of strangers around here."

"Would you like help with those?" he asked, tilting his head towards the water filled buckets.

"No thank you, I've got it," she replied, giving him a long look. The man was tall with wide shoulders and thick midnight black hair. He had on a pair of well-worn moccasins and a badly stitched together leather pants. His coat was a patched together thing of many different furs. At a glance the girl recognized grey wolf, beaver, rabbit, cougar, fox, and badger. Taking in his curious apparel, the young girl came to the logical conclusion. "Are you the Wildman who lives in the mountains?" she asked.

Another smile flashed across his face. "You know of me? Well I suppose the whole town does by now hm?"

"Yup," she chirped.

Most of the citizens of Second Chance didn't believe the Wildman existed, or they just didn't care either way. But Rachel believed, after all, her friend Thomas said he saw the man and Thomas never lied. A delighted smile curved her lips at the thought that she was the first person to talk to the mystery man.

"What's your name?" he asked softly as he took a step closer.

"Rachel, what's yours?"

"You can call me Mr. Thorne."

* * *

"Is it done?" The Matron asked, scrolling over the data she'd been able to salvage from the Professor's files. Something wasn't adding up, and the discrepancies were beginning to nag at her. It was like an itch she couldn't reach.  _There was systematic destruction of some files, whereas other files remained untouched. What truly happened here?_

"Yes Matron."

She gave a quiet hum of approval as she tried to unscramble some badly damaged data that hadn't been completely destroyed. "Good. Bipolar has been activated. You will go on the helicopter with him and provide any support you can. Do be careful Thorne, X is turning out to be far more dangerous than we anticipated."

"I will Matron," he said with a cool smile as he turned to leave.

Dr. Vigil bumped into him when she entered the room when he tried to exit. "Oh excuse me," she murmured, and received a grunt for her politeness.

"Good afternoon Matron."

"Ah, there you are. We are ready to send Bipolar. I'm certain he will fare better than the others," the Matron said with the same conviction of a Born again Christian.  _I highly doubt it,_  Megan thought before she took a seat.

The Matron looked at the images on the screen fondly while the technicians placed a domed helmet over the man's shaved head. "Lieutenant Kenneth Biggs was a communications specialist in Tamboor. He was helping to build an advanced telephone system for the citizens there when he was gravely injured in a car bombing. The blast shattered his skull and burned away most of his lower jaw, tongue, and nose. Both his larynx and vocal cords were permanently damaged."

Megan shivered, remembering her own experience with a bomb and how it had altered her life irrevocably.

"We were able to implement bionic and surgical alterations that Lieutenant Biggs had a hand in designing. He wanted to go down a different path in the area of communications," the Matron continued, handing Megan a stack of photos.

Her stomach churned while she looked at the glossy images.  _Well, at least my eyes can be hidden behind sunglasses, s_ he thought critically. There was no hiding the fact that the man had what looked like a radio dish implanted in his lower face.

"Both his mouth and lower throat were replaced by a wave transmitter disk of exceptional power. Behind the microwave emitter the klystron, magnetron tubes, as well as the oscillators and resonators to control frequency are located," the Matron explained without Megan's prompting. The younger woman found that she had no taste for the way the Matron twisted human flesh and blended it with technology.

"Microwave?" She couldn't help but ask.

"Much the same, yes. Microwaves use short, high-frequency radio waves. But, such waves have many applications outside of the realm of cooking," she said. "Radio, radar, television, meteorology, and satellite communication are just a few areas where these waves are utilized."

"How will this be used against Weapon X?" Megan asked, curious in spite of her distaste.

"Microwaves work by agitating the water molecules in food, which in turn causes them to vibrate and heat the food. Unlike microwaves, which cannot penetrate metal, Bipolar is able to use the entire spectrum of energy waves. He is capable of creating radio waves that can cause burns, cataracts, damage to the nervous system, and even sterility. But what he excels in, is focusing energy in the microwave range to burn metal and sear flesh," she all but cooed.

Megan's stomach gave another sharp twist of disgust. "I see," she murmured, whishing she hadn't asked.

* * *

Shrill screams shattered the still morning and tore through the town. Big Rita's anguished cries pulled people from their cabins. Jesse Lee had been trudging to the pumps when the terrible sound made him drop his pails and sprint for the pumps. Dropping to his knees he frantically touched the small broken child, desperate to undue the terrible slashes that had savagely ended her young life.

"Why, Why?" Rita howled to the uncaring sky. The screaming demand mingled with her native Inuit when she pleaded to the Gods for answers.

The crowd grew, and other voices joined hers. The community reacted with horror and growing rage at the sight of the slain child. Both Thomas and the Librarian arrived together, they'd been drinking coffee and trading stories before the commotion began. "What happened?" Thomas demanded, elbowing his way through the crowed.

"It's Rachel" Ben choked, tears streaming freely down his weather beaten face. "The Wildman killed her!"

Forcing his way past the large man, Thomas took one look at the blood stained snow and cursed before looking away. Ben was nearly incoherent with grief and had to be supported by his brother Jerry.

"Ben's right, that God damn Wildman did this," Jerry growled. The snarl was echoed by the crowed. The accusation was repeated and spread like wildfire through the onlookers.

"You can't know that," Thomas protested, his voice rising so that everyone could hear him. "No one saw what happened, so no one knows who did this," he said sharply, gesturing towards the carnage.

"Who else would have killed her?" Martin demanded, pointing a finger at Thomas. "Look, her throats been cut, there are three parallel slashes from her neck to her knee. You said it yourself, the Wildman had three blades on each hand."

"That doesn't mean he did it!" Thomas countered. "You gotta remember, the Wildman isn't the only stranger wandering around."

Bill's tattooed arms were wrapped securely around his wife's weeping form. "Army didn't do that. Yeah, they're shootin shit up, but they wouldn't come down here just ta kill a little girl," he rasped.

"Why would the Wildman?"

"Why? Because he's a damned monster that's why! I say we ought to go up the mountain and kill it!" Ben snarled. The crowd roared in agreement, falling into a mob mentality.

"Shut it! Try and have some respect for the dead," Jesse Lee's voice slashed through the angry babble like a hot knife. After removing his army-surplus jacket, the man gently covered Rachel's corpse with it before he picked up her and cradled her to his chest.

The Librarian moved through the crowd. "Come along, let's bring her to the long house," he said solemnly, and laid a supporting hand on Jesse Lee's shoulder.

"And the Wildman?" Martin demanded.

Glaring at the little man Thomas said "What about him?"

"Aren't we going to get him?"

Ben answered, his voice hollow with grief "Damn straight we are." The words held a finality about them that kept the rest of the crowed, even Thomas quiet as they trudged to the long house.

Worried citizens of Second Chance packed themselves into the building. News of Rachel's death had spread like wildfire. The room was full of men and women who sat in the chairs, on the floor, leaned against shelves and even stacked books to create seating, and messed up the Librarian's careful stacks.

Thomas studied the faces around him, trying to decide who stood where while the Librarian spoke. It was a pointless task, but one that helped him keep his own rage in check. Thomas wanted to kill the dirty bastard who did this just as much as everyone else did, but he didn't think it was the Wildman. Not only that, he seriously didn't think that anyone here had a snowflakes chance in hell of surviving if they went up the mountain.  _If those freaks couldn't put the Wildman down, no way a bunch of old bikers and hippies can do it._

"That's where things stand. Now, before I open up the floor I wanted to inform you all that we will be laying Little Rachel to rest up on the hillside next to her mother tomorrow at noon. I hope you'll all be there to say a few words of remembrance," the Librarian stated, looking down at his notes. "Next order of business?"

"We ought to form a posse to hunt down the Wildman" Ben barked, slamming his fist on the table hard enough to make the wood creek in protest.

"I second that!" Jerry bellowed.

"Let's take a vote on the matter." Marvin demanded.

The room erupted with shouts, and the Librarian's voice was lost in the ruckus. After a few attempts, he snatched up the ball-peen hammer from the hearth and banged the table. "Order. Order!" The old man shouted, until the group settled down enough for individuals to be heard.

"I object, this isn't a posse you're talking about, it's a damned lynch mob." Thomas said. Angry shouts met his words, while a minority called for silence.

"Just what are you objecting to Swimming Horse? We haven't even voted on anything yet," Bill demanded.

"Look, you guys are making a mistake. The Wildman didn't do thi-"

"And how do you know that huh?" another voice shouted, cutting Thomas off.

"I don't, but what I do know is that if you go up that mountain and make him mad he'll wipe you out, every one of you."

Bill snorted "Yeah right, if I get that bastard in my sights, he'll be a dead man."

"Really? And what can you do Bill, that the army and a bloody human torch couldn't?" Thomas questioned harshly.

"We can chase him out," Bill said.

"How? You don't even know where he is," Thomas countered.

"We know he's on the mountain, and if he's there I can track him," Ben said. Thomas knew it to be true. The brothers were as good at tracking as their grandfather before them.

Marvin's voice rang out with fiery conviction "I move we vote!"

"I second." Ben said gruffly.

"Motion passed," The Librarian said, not looking at where Thomas stood. "Those who vote aye to form a posse?" The building shook with the force of Ayes, drowning out the hand full of nays.

"The vote is yes," the Librarian said with finality as he banged the hammer again.

"This is wrong. I know the Wildman didn't do this," Thomas said. "He didn't even have weapons in his cave."

Jesse Lee scoffed. "What would he need weapons for? Didn't you say he had knives built in?"

"Hold on a tick," Ben said as he stood and shoved past people until he stood in front of Thomas. "Did you say he lived in a cave?"

Thomas shifted his weight, realizing his error too late to take it back. "Maybe."

"That's the cave between the ledge and the plateau up by the summit," Ben said, punching his palm with his other fist.

"Hey yeah, the one where the cat used to den," Jesse added.

"Don't do this," Thomas pleaded.

"Just drop it Swimming Horse," Martin sneered. "You were outvoted."

"Fine, whatever. You're wrong. And by the way, you're all committing suicide," he said harshly, and headed for the door.

Ray Creighton and Old Herman blocked the path. A gnarled shillelagh was clutched in Ray's hand and Herman gave Thomas a yellow tooth bearing grin.

"What the he-" Thomas began.

"We ain't gunna let cha go awarnen that Wildman now Thomas," Herman said in his age crackled voice.

Fury washed though Thomas. How dare they try and keep him from leaving, even if that was just what he'd planned to do?

"Get out of my way," Thomas snapped, shoving Herman out of his path and darting for the door.

"Stop him!" someone cried. Ray gave Thomas a hard whack to the back of his skull with his club, driving the native to his knees. A second hit sent him crashing to the floor in an unconscious heap.

"Meeting adjourned," the Librarian's voice followed him down into the void.

* * *

" _The next opponent is operational. It will reach your location within the hour. Do not be there, do not inform Weapon X of the impending attack."_ The voice crackled through IX's mind, snapping him to full alertness from the light doze he'd been in. Strong arms tightened around his slender body, and he remained relaxed against the massive chest while he contemplated the orders.

"Yes, sir," IX's quiet monotone caused his living bed to give him another squeeze. "I have to compete a reconnaissance mission. Remain here until I return," he stated before wiggling out of X's possessive grasp. With something akin to a playful growl, X pounced on the slight figure before he could vanish and drove him to the ground. Ignoring the short dagger twisting in his gut, he nibbled along IX's collar bone. The touch of tongue and teeth was a gentle teasing thing while the large weapon explored his little mate's soft skin.

The blade twisted in warning and brilliant green eyes stared frostily at the top of X's head. While the strange new touches weren't unpleasant, they were interfering with the mission and that was unacceptable. "Off," he said, punctuating the command with another cruel twist. Grunting, X gave the pale skin one last lick before he pulled himself up off the blood stained blade. The wound healed instantly, and X stretched like a great cat before sauntering back over to the fire to add some more wood.

IX huffed at the large Weapon's unusual behavior before he stood and dusted himself off. The neck of his shirt had already been damaged beyond repair, causing the garment to continually slip off one shoulder or the other.  _I would have grabbed myself another if I didn't think X would just ruin it as he has this one_. IX mused, stepping into the shadows. Before giving into sleep last night, he'd returned to the facility and grabbed X a new pair of jeans to replace the ones that had been reduced to ashes.

He had no interest in returning to the facility a second time. So with his destination in mind, IX turned on his heel and vanished, leaving X to cope with the surprise attack on his own.

* * *

Thomas groaned when he felt a sharp tug on his bound arms. Then the unmistakable sound of a knife sawing at the tough fibers vibrated through his headache heavy mind. It was a struggle, but he managed to pry open his eyes once his arms were freed from the biting rope.

The first thing he saw was Old Herman sprawled on the floor. The sound of his snoring assured the native that he was alive. The lithe shadowy shape moved to the rope that bit into his ankles before carving through them in a single stroke. "Tiny?" Thomas muttered in confusion when his concussed brain tried to sort out what the hell was going on. Sitting up, the native began to rube the feeling back into his numb hands while he studied the young man standing in his cabin.

"Did you or the Wildman kill the girl?" he demanded, his voice hoarse.

IX tilted his head, studying the now free hunter. He'd decided to check on the man to insure the healing had held up when he'd found the native tied up. Taking down the guard was a simple matter. It helped that the incompetent man had been intoxicated at the time. It was difficult for the Weapon not to kill the guard out of sheer contempt. But, he hadn't been ordered to bring harm to the citizens of this community, and unless they attacked first he wasn't to engage them.

_Then why are you helping this one now?_  IX wondered. What did it matter if the community had turned on the hunter? The questions had no answers, so IX focused on Thomas's question instead.

"What girl?"

"The one that was murdered here last night. She was killed with knives, a lot like the ones the Wildman has." Thomas admitted, his voice diamond hard with demand. He stared hard at IX, trying to find any hint of deception in the short male's body language. It would have been easier to read a tree for all the emotion IX's face and body gave away.

"No one in this community has died by our hands," IX said indifferently. The words caused a shiver to twine down Thomas's spine as he read between the lines. No one in  _this_  community. He had little doubt that both Tiny and the Wildman's hands were red with the blood of others, more than just the freaks that had been sent up the mountain. Something about the way IX spoke that one sentence said as much.

Before he could ask anything more, the tiny male vanished. "I hate when you do that," Thomas muttered before he stood and rummaged through his pantry. Grabbed a bottle of generic aspirin, he swallowed three of them dry in the hope that they'd help reduce the pounding in his skull.

"Someone has to try and stop those idiots," he groaned looking out at the early morning light. It looked like barely an hour had passed since he was knocked out. There was still enough time to try and cut the fools off before they got themselves killed.

* * *

Hunger caused his gut to rumble, and X slipped out of the cave to hunt. With the grace of a stalking panther, he picked his way down the shattered landscape and into a narrow ravine. Finding prey would be difficult after the fire a few nights ago, but the thought didn't worry him. Like a wolf, he would range as far as needed to find food.

The wind shifted, causing the hunter to freeze when it brought an out of place scent. Leather, mothballs, alcohol, tobacco,  _men._  His lips twisted into a fierce snarl. Killing them would be a simple thing, but they were not part of the operation, and he'd been drilled extensively about targets and non-combatants. The Professor didn't want a killing machine that couldn't differentiate between the two and, he would be useless if he killed everything in sight. They wanted weapons that were smarter than bombs after all.

With another low growl, he turned and darted back up the trail. He needed IX. The small male was better at incapacitating targets without eliminating them.

"He knows we're here!" Jesse Lee shouted, leaping up on top of the rock he'd been hiding behind, took aim, and fired. With a boom the rifle shot echoed off the mountains. The bullet tore a large chunk out of X's thick back, splattering dark blood over the snow, but the wound didn't even cause him to stagger as he continued running. The hole healed before he'd taken three steps.

X darted out of the way of another bullet that tore through the place he'd been standing. All around the parameter of the ravine shapes broke from hiding, revealing the ambush he'd walked into. Ferocious eyes took in the sight of middle aged men, old men, beards, warn patched jackets and furs. Old they might have been, but it was clear when another bullet tore through his calf, causing him to stumble before the flesh regenerated, that they made their livelihoods by hunting and were damned good shots.

"He's headed your way Jerry!" One of the men shouted and a bullet ricocheted off the back of his skull, hot blood danced down the back of his neck, but didn't flow long enough to touch his back. Without missing a step he leapt off the trail and began scrambling up the face of the mountain. His bare feet easily found purchase on the icy rocks as he climbed. The old men weren't as lucky, their boots couldn't grip the rocks causing them to fumble with their rifles as they were forced to use their hands to keep from falling.

Just as he reached the top of the ravine and pulled himself over the edge back onto the trail, a shadow fell over him. The click of a hammer was loud in the stillness, followed by the resounding blast of a shotgun. X grunted when buckshot slammed into his shoulders and chest. The force of the blast almost sent him careening back over the edge of the cliff, but his claws snapped out of their sheaths and bit into stone to keep him anchored.

With a frightened curse, the large man stumbled back and tripped over the broken landscape. He fell and the empty shotgun tumbled from his grasp to slide down the mountain. "Didja get em Bill?" a voice called out.

Snarling, X pulled himself back over the ledge. The urge to kill the blubbering idiot burned hotly but X fought the impulse. Now that the civilian was unarmed, it was harmless. The terrified man watched with wide frightened eyes, waiting for the killing blow. Instead, X leapt over the fallen man and continued his assent. He didn't know what had gotten the civilians all riled up, but he wouldn't strike out against them until ordered to do so.

* * *

It was a risk, but Thomas was willing to take it. He negotiated the rough patch, making his way up the original trail. Warning the Wildman would be easier than trying to talk sense into the mob led by Zen Master Martin anyway. Thomas was betting he'd be able to make it up the original trail, as destroyed as it was, well before the others made around the long way. He was a better mountain climber than any of the men who'd gone with the posse, not to mention he was a good fifteen years younger than the lot of them.

So far the gamble had paid off. He'd only hit two difficult patches, and he was making good time. Thomas froze, clinging to the face of the rocks when a Blackhawk roared overhead making its way up the mountain. The chopper vanished behind the thick foliage of the summit, but the thick thrum of the blades told Thomas that the craft was hovering. If history was anything to go by, Thomas was certain that if he followed the Blackhawk he'd find X's current location.

* * *

The sound that had twice heralded the appearance of an opponent washed over X, and he gave a toothy grin. Finally, an enemy he could attack, and not foolish old civilians who had to be avoided. X slunk forward, keeping his bulk hidden within the trees when he spied the Blackhawk roaring away. Keeping perfectly still, he let his gaze slide over the forested landscape. He wouldn't be taken by surprise again.

Spotting movement, X clawed his way up the large pine to gain the height advantage. He waited with the terrible patience of a stalking feline while a figure dressed in black body armor stepped into the clearing between the large trees. Something was wrong with the man's face, but X didn't waist energy trying to understand how this one had been altered. All that mattered was the kill. One step, two, almost within striking distance. The strange one paused, his head turning just as the wind shifted again, bringing with it the scent of the foolish civilians.

X's legs bunched when he inched out onto a thick branch just as the civilians rounded the bend and spotted his opponent.

"Holy Mary Mother of God, what  _is_  that thing?" Ben whispered while he and the rest of the men stared in dumb silence at the unholy sight. None of them wanted to believe Thomas's story of a fire breathing man in leather shorts, but looking at the stranger with a satellite dish where his lower face should have been suddenly lent more validity to the other man's tales.

An electronic hum began to fill the clearing. Bipolar stared at the rag tag band of hill men. The Matron hadn't said anything about this in her briefing. It didn't matter, they were in the way, and just looking at him sealed their fate. The civilians had seen too much, and were interfering with his mission.

The civilians didn't get to feel the agonizing beam of radio waves, instead sharp blades sliced cleanly through Bipolar's skull and arced down as the weight of X's decent pulled the blades down the man's body, bisecting him before he could discharge his weapon. Blood and thicker things splashed over the windswept stone, the gory sight caused Marvin to backpedal before spewing vomit down the front of his parka in thick chunks. The rest of the men were equally stunned.

"Oh God! He killed him, he killed him just like he killed Rachel!" Marvin shouted, jarring the men out of their stunned stupor. As one, the group lifted their weapons and trained them on the crouching Wildman.

"Guess again," light teasing voice caused the group to jolt and turn in surprise when they saw a group of a dozen armed soldiers standing behind them. X slipped back into the shadowy tree line while the two groups were distracted by each other.

The soldiers had their guns trained on the group. There was a Major with a pot marked face, and next to him stood another man in a black formfitting battle suit. This one didn't have any obvious physical alterations like the one the Wildman dispatched, but the men still felt wary. "I killed the little girl, slit her pretty throat," the battle suit wearing one said with a smug grin. "With these," he added and held up his hands. Three parallel claws grew grass-like out of the man's wrist until they were nearly a foot long before he dismissed them. "With a simple flick of the wrist I could gut the lot of you. That's why they call me Thorne."

"You bastard!" Jerry howled as he brought his rifle up. One of the soldiers fired, and the large man staggered back blood blooming like a rose over his chest. Gasping, he stumbled and fell. The gun slid from his limp hands while his life's blood spilled over the cold snow.

"Now, drop your weapons or we will dispatch the rest of you where you stand," the Major snapped.

Angrily, the men threw down their guns. "What do you want?" Martin demanded, his voice held a shrill edge to it that made Thorne sneer.

"You men are from that little community in the valley, are you not? I believe when we're finished here we'll pay it a little visit" the Major said coldly.

"Why can't you just leave us alone?" Martin cried and puffed his vomit stained chest out like an agitated cockatiel.

"I'm afraid you've seen and done too much for that," the Major replied with mock sorrow. "What with you running all over the mountain and interfering in things that just aren't your business."

"What'll you do with us now?" Jesse Lee demanded.

"State secrets need to remain so, wouldn't you agree?" the Major said. "This mess needs to be cleaned up, and we can't have people talking you understand."

* * *

Thomas hid behind a tumble of rocks and watched the drama unfold. He hadn't been quick enough to turn the men back. Now it looked like they'd leapt right out of the frying pan and into the fire. While he might have been able to talk the Wildman and Tiny down, there was no way he would be able to stop what was about to happen. "I'm sorry," he whispered into the wind, choking back the desperate urge to do something, anything, to save them.

* * *

IX perched in the heavy branches of an old tree and studied the unfolding altercation. "Sir, we have a situation. Weapon X successfully eliminated his opponent. It appears that the Matron sent soldiers as backup. Armed civilians have ascended the mountain and are being confronted by the soldiers. Please advise if action should be taken," IX reported.

" _Eliminate them all, over."_

As graceful and cutting as the arctic wind, IX dropped from the branches. He landed behind the row of soldiers without betraying a sound. Before the men realized they were in danger, his blades tore through them, severing spinal cords, slashing over throats, puncturing vital organs, and creating a storm of blood in his wake.

"What the he-" the Major squawked when the sound of men choking on their own blood and falling caused him to turn, only to see a blood soaked child standing behind them. The crimson liquid had splashed almost artfully over the boy's pale features, making the green of his eyes burn with a startling vividness. Before he could bring his gun up, the blade still dripping with the blood of his fallen soldiers shot forward and landed with a sickening thump between the Major's eyes.

When the last soldier fell, IX turned his cold gaze on the unarmed civilians. Thomas almost stood from his hiding place, but one look into those chips of jade told him the short man was beyond negotiation. If he revealed himself now, he'd be another corpse staining the snow with his blood. The men did the only thing they could, they fled.

With apathetic ease, IX bent down and picked up one of the assault rifles.  _Crack, crack, crack, crack, crack._  One by one the targets fell, brains and shattered skull fragments painted a gruesome picture of efficiency while the small Weapon tied up loose ends.

When the last man fell, X ghosted out of the forest. He knew better than to interrupt when IX had things under control, so he'd watched his little mate as he killed. "Pile up the bodies," IX commanded as he wiped the blood from his face. Moving with haunting grace, X obeyed. It didn't take him long to heap the corpses of soldier and civilian alike into one mound of dead.

Focusing on his power, IX began to pace around the dead, visualizing the circle he was shaping. When it was compete, he stepped back and stared hard at the pile. "Burn," fire leapt into being at his command. The sinuous shapes danced over the offering of flesh and began devouring them even while they started to press hungrily against the containment circle in an effort to escape and consume the world. Flesh blackened and the stench of cooking human remains, burned hair, and smoking cloth filled the clearing. IX held the fire until nothing was left but greasy ash before forcing his power into the circle and crushing the flames back out of existence.

IX swayed when the fire was snuffed out, and X pulled the slight male into his arms before stalking back towards the cave so the tiny male could rest. He knew the fire was difficult for his little mate to control and it always left him tired after using it.

Thomas watched the pair leave before bending over and getting quietly but thoroughly sick.

* * *

The dark of the cave encircled them, but before X could pull his mate towards the sleeping pallet for some much needed rest, the smaller male stilled. Large arms closed around IX's waist as he waited, recognizing the listening pose of his mate receiving instructions.

_Weapon IX, Report._

"The soldiers and civilians were successfully neutralized. The bodies were destroyed."

_Affirmative. Operation Obsolete is now active, you will complete this mission on your own. Once Operation Obsolete is finished, eliminate the settlement of civilians and cover your tracks._

"Yes, sir."

_Weapon X will leave immediately, traveling due east. He will be intercepted by the S.T.A.R.T Team. His orders are to attack with non-lethal force. The team is not to be permanently injured. When they net him, he is to yield and feign unconsciousness. They will then bind him and bring him to Headquarters. After your mission is complete, join us for debriefing._

"Yes, sir."

The low hum indicating the line in his mind was open fell silent, ending the communication. Tilting his head back, IX locked eyes with X, holding the other male's gaze with a dominance that wasn't to be ignored.

"Our missions have been given, and here we will part ways." X's lips curled back at the words, but IX didn't flinch. "Your mission is to permit yourself to be captured and delivered to the Director. Head due east, and when you're attacked put up a mock fight. Do not kill the members sent to capture you. Do not permanently harm them. After the net closes around you, be still. Wait, and allow them to take you. When my mission is finished, I will arrive at Headquarters. Is that understood?" IX's voice held a whip crack of steel, demanding compliance.

X's grip became crushing, and when the large man dipped his head, IX expected another bite to sink into his shoulder. Instead, X's harsh lips closed over his own soft mouth. Sharp teeth nipped at his plump bottom lip, making obscure demands that IX failed to understand. His slim body remained perfectly still in the painful grip, analyzing the new behavior.

_Kiss: To touch or caress with the lips as an expression of affection, greeting, respect, or amorousness._  His mind offered up the definition, recalled from the forced upload of language during his initial training.

A rumbling growl trickled from X's mouth into his, flavoring the odd touch with deep vibrations. X's tongue forced itself past his slightly parted lips, demanding a reaction. IX gave the other man a bemused look, his green eyes still open, and finding it difficult to focus while they were so close together. Even though he'd figured out what the other man was doing, he couldn't comprehend why. His limited knowledge on the subject stated that kisses were shared between those who were affectionate towards each other. Either in a romantic sense, a familial sense, or at times just out of friendship.

IX didn't believe this sort of kiss fell into the later categories when the tongue continued to map his mouth. He was so lost in thought, he didn't notice his own tongue slide hesitantly against the invader.

X wanted to shout up at the sky when his own desperate need burned him, and still his mate remained cold. Even with the gentle caress of his mate's tongue over his own, the small male's scent remained the painfully free of arousal. The sweet flavor almost drove him out of his mind with need, but he couldn't act. Not when his mate refused to acknowledge the bond.

The arms around him tightened further when IX attempted to pull away. Annoyance flashed through him, and he bit X's tongue hard enough to draw blood for an instant before it healed. X gave a small yelp of surprise at the attack, which IX took advantage of. Pulling away, he glared up at X. "That's enough of…that. We have missions to accomplish, and we don't have time for such foolishness. Now go," unlike IX usual monotone, his voice held a hint of confusion, unable to process X's peculiar behavior.

With a low grumble, X released him. Turning away, IX wiped the excess saliva from his lips, and wondered at the soft tingle that remained before he vanished to execute his first solo mission. The taste of X's blood lingered like a promise of their future reunion.

* * *

The Matron took a long sip of brandy, allowing the alcohol to blunt the edges of her sorrow. Bipolar had gone off-line seven hours ago, and was followed by Thorne. Because the attacks happened from behind, and the forest was too thick for overhead surveillance satellites to get an accurate reading, she didn't even know how her men perished.

She hadn't reported the failure to the Director yet, and she was grateful that the infuriating man hadn't called to demand an update. When it was clear her soldiers were dead, the Matron sent everyone away. Now the lab that had buzzed with orange suits and activity since they took command of the facility was silenced except for the soft hum of computers, and the clink of ice in her glass. Everything she'd worked for, all the breakthroughs and effort had been wiped out by a damned renegade science project.

With a slow blink, the Matron turned her attention back to the screen. Reaching out, she tapped the play button again. The screen darkened, before beginning to pixelate. Static hissed from the speakers, but she could still make out the fragmented words.  _"The subject appears to be a mutant, age unknown, origin-probes were successfully placed. The child's body is badly damaged assumed abu-Project Weapon IV ready to begin growth exc-"_ The audio broke up entirely, but for an instant the screen cleared. Reaching out, she froze the recording.

The naked, emaciated body of a toddler appeared on the screen. It was clearly male, and bristled with probes. The boy's drugged eyes were half open, flashing emerald under the strong surgical light. This file had been the only one she'd managed to salvage, and it was degraded to the point it was almost useless save for the handful of words and this one image.

Taking another sip, she realized the glass was empty. The air shifted behind her and the Matron had an itch between her shoulder blades that meant she wasn't alone. "Go away Megan," the woman said in a defeated tone. Her words held the hint of a slur when she turned to shoo the doctor back to her room. She didn't care for company at the moment.

The glass slipped from her fingers when she saw the boy, blood flecked over pale features, and a knife held in his grip in a way that spoke of long familiarity with the weapon. Brilliant crimson drops fell from the blade's edge.

"Weapon IX, I presume?" she whispered, studying the grown boy who was still far smaller than he should have been. Those empty green eyes flicked from her face to the image on the screen before returning to her when she spoke again. "You were the one who killed Slammer, weren't you?"

"Yes."

"Why?" the harsh question scraped along the edges of her throat before escaping. What purpose was achieved by killing her creation? He'd been rendered harmless, killing him was unnecessary.

"Because he failed his objective, proving that he had become obsolete. A weapon that cannot perform must be eliminated," his words held the cold conviction of a true believer.

She swallowed. "What of you? If you fail, are you going to let that monster kill you too?"

IX tilted his head in question. "The Director would not need to terminate me, I will complete the task if the order is given for my de-activation." She gaped at him, hearing only the terrible truth in his bald tone and realizing that this…this child would kill himself. Not only if he failed, but if the man ordered him to for any reason.

"My men?" She asked, trying and failing to keep her voice coolly aloft.

"Dead." the boy confirmed in a soft monotone, his voice and angelic face betrayed no emotion. "The Director sends his regards, but regretfully wishes to inform you that your services are no longer required," the words were said with mechanical precision and he shifted his weight, preparing to attack now that her curiosity had been satisfied.

"Wait! I have a message to send in return. Tell him…tell him that for all my enhancements, at least my creations were still human in every way that counted. Tell him that my men had a choice; that they were not mindless, emotionless droids that lived only to kill. Tell him that I wasn't the monster, he is," she said breathlessly, hoping that this cold tool masquerading as a person would be moved by her words. She knew it wouldn't be enough to save her life, but maybe, someday, it would be enough to earn her revenge.

"Noted," the cold word was accompanied by the bite of sharp steel, already coated in the blood of her followers, as it slid smoothly through her pale flesh, adding her blood to the lake of life giving liquid that already stained the floor of this facility.

Turning away from the corpse, IX staggered back when a bullet tore through his chest. Brilliant green eyes widened in shock. He stared at the young woman with glowing red optics who stood in the doorway a pistol poised to fire again.

 


	11. Public Relations

"Misdirection is the key element. We can create a space where we give them something to look at to take their mind away from what they really should be seeing." – Chris Conti

* * *

The shower, still woefully cold, hadn't improved Megan's depression. Living in the facility, surrounded by all the reminders of death, and watching as soldier after soldier leave only to return in body bags had taken its toll on the young doctor. "This place is cursed," she confessed to the still air after she slipped out of her room. The bland industrial walls felt like they were closing in on her, and Megan knew if she stayed there alone, it would only increase the crushing depression threatening to swallow her whole.

Her restlessness took her far outside of the habituated areas of the facility. The shadows sprang to life after she turned down another faceless corridor. Megan didn't see the slight figure who stepped out of the darkness. Luckily for her, the agent of Death failed to see her in turn. Instead he moved with terrible purpose towards the brightly lit havens of humanity that once again infested the bloodstained facility, overlooking the sleepless woman who wandered the dark halls.

Silence made the building feel like a long abandoned tomb, and the low squeak of her sneakers on the cement floor was unnaturally loud as she walked. Megan shivered at the morbidity of her thoughts. It was like being in a scary movie, and any moment she'd round a corner only to be confronted by a wall of shambling corpses hungry for brains. "There's nothing to be afraid of," she whispered, flinching when the distorted words bounced and echoed down the barren hall.

Turning, Megan hurried back the way she came. Her imagination was running rampant, and she knew if she wandered around much longer she'd end up bumping into someone and screaming like a scared little girl. It was bad enough to be a female in a male dominated field, and even though the Matron was the undisputed head of her Department, that didn't mean her staff held Megan in such high regard. She'd learned a long time ago that the only way to make it in a field like hers was to be better, stronger, and braver than the men. It was stupid, but true. Women couldn't be as good as the big boys. No, they had to be better to earn any sort of respect. Trembling and whimpering like a frightened child was no way to earn respect in a place like this.

All thoughts about women in the work place came to a screeching halt when Megan spotted the first orange clad body lying in a wide pool of crimson. Red bionic eyes cataloged the image with burning clarity, and it scorched itself into her unwilling brain with gruesome detail. The way the slash across the man's throat was surgically neat, the edges slightly parted, showing the smoothness of the knife stroke. How the papers the lab tech had been holding were scattered in a flurry around him when they fell from his startled grasp, and the look of surprise on the young man's face, as if death caught him unaware.

Megan choked when she swallowed the scream trying to claw its way out of her throat. A small whimper broke free, and she clapped her hand over her mouth before the rest of the scream could follow. There was no guarantee that the killer wasn't close enough to hear her. She paled when the absurd, yet horrifying thought that this was the work of unsettled spirits filled her mind. _Don't be stupid! There's no such thing as ghosts, and even if there were, they wouldn't wander around cutting people with knives._  Shaking, the young Doctor forced herself into motion. This wasn't the work of Weapon X, she'd bet her reputation on it. The death wound was too precisely executed.

_Assassins? Perhaps competition out to steal the Weapon before we subdued it?_  With careful steps, Megan skirted around the vivid pool of fresh blood. She could try to run away, but that would be a death sentence. Even if she managed to escape the facility, what would she do then?  _I don't even know how to camp without an RV_ , she thought, and nibbled her lower lip indecisively. Leaving the facility wouldn't be an escape. If the weather didn't kill her, then Weapon X would.  _The devil you know, or the devil you don't_ , she mused, forcing herself to keep moving.

More bodies appeared, each killed with the same deft knife skills as the first. Every death was disturbingly tidy, and each victim died before they could raise an alarm.

Bile burned the back of her throat when she found Tom. The sandy haired guard looked untouched, and where it not for the unnatural tilt of his head where he lay slumped against a wall, she would have thought he was unconscious. Kneeling, she reached out and gently placed her fingers at the base of his throat. "Please be alive," she begged, but before she could feel for a pulse his head lulled to the side bonelessly. Broken.

Megan's chest tightened, and she silently cursed when her cheeks remained painfully dry. Before she lost her eyes, she hated crying above all things. But now, looking down at a life cut short and a face that had offered her more than one charming smile, Megan bitterly wished she could cry.

A dry sob broke from her chest. The grating sound was enough to jar her back to her senses. "I'm sorry," Megan breathed, uncertain of what she was apologizing for. There was nothing she could have done to save him. He deserved an apology, and she was sorry. Sorry that he was so very young, and the shiny newness of him hadn't worn off yet.  _He should have been out with his friends, going to college, making something of himself. He shouldn't just be another corpse feeding this evil place._

Sitting back on her heels, Megan reached out eased the service pistol out of its harness at his side. Tom wouldn't need it now. With dark resolve she stood, a new determination stiffened her back while the fear and horror became a background buzz, easily ignored in favor of cold purpose. The sharp tap of her shoes on the blood splashed floors marked her passage through the death shrouded halls. Dead bodies were ignored, no longer causing her steps to falter as she made her way to the lab.

The Matron would be there, she'd know what needed to be done. It never occurred to her that the Matron might not be able to handle what had come hunting them in the darkness.

* * *

"Dead. The Director sends his regards, but regretfully wishes to inform you that your services are no longer required."

Megan froze, her hand out to push open the cracked door when the words washed over her. It sounded like a corpse brought back to life. The words held a terrible, gaping emptiness that couldn't possibly have come from a living throat. There was no infliction, no hint of emotion or hesitation. That  _thing_  had killed everyone, yet it spoke with such bland indifference that it might have been talking about paint drying, not the blood of countless men splashed over the floors. Megan's hand squeezed tighter around grip of the gun, and she fought not to shove the door open and start shooting. Fear held her rooted to the spot even after the Matron's voice joined the dead one, proving she was still alive and in grave danger. Still, she couldn't move. All the terribly neat corpses she'd seen flashed in front of her mind's eye. How could she ever think to come out on top against a killer like that? Something that could blow through a facility, leaving only death in its wake, as unstoppable as a hurricane.

A quiet wheeze, and the sound of a body hitting the unforgiving floor broke her paralysis. Throwing caution to the wind, she pushed the door open and brought the gun up.  _Bang_! The sound was like captive thunder in the enclosed space, and Megan's eyes widened in shock when she saw the slender boy stagger back, one pale hand reaching up to cover the hole in his chest. Surprise flitted over his blank features as he sank to his knees, blood poured from between his fingertips, and a streak of crimson slipped from his lips when he gasped.

* * *

_Foolish_ , IX thought when his knees met the unyielding floor, and his life blood fled his body at an alarming rate. He knew of the woman, and saw her with the Matron during his reconnaissance missions. It had been sheer foolishness not to locate and dispose of her before confronting the Matron.

His power tingled along his nerves. He could feel it pooling in his chest, trying to dam the flow of blood. The power seemed to buzz with a question, wanting to be put to use, to escape to a safer place to mend the damage. Flexing his power enough to disrupt the electricity and give him the much needed darkness would have been effortless. Emerald eyes locked on the woman as he felt his strength begin to wane. As long as she lived, the mission wasn't complete, and that was unacceptable.

Calculations flashed through his mind, and he permitted his body to slump forward. Playing the child wouldn't work with this one, for all that she was female. No, she'd seen the truth of him, and wouldn't be fooled by the lie. Each breath was shallow enough to appear non-existent, and he waited in perfect stillness for human nature to work in his favor.

Megan's hands shook so hard that she almost dropped the gun. Her heart trembled in her chest when she registered what she'd done.  _I killed him, oh God, I'm a murderer._ Those thoughts were followed swiftly by another, more frightful one.  _What if he isn't dead?_ As much as she loathed the thought of taking a life, Megan recognized the fact that the crumpled form had slaughtered everyone in the facility. If it hadn't been for luck, he would have killed her too.

With a lurch, she forced her body into motion, approaching the fallen Weapon.  _This must be the one the Matron was talking about, the one who was throwing off all the attempts at capturing Weapon X._ Laying in a growing pool of his own blood, it was hard to recognize the threat the small male posed. He just looked so tiny and broken. Holding her breath, Megan reached forward with one foot to nudge the body onto its back. The gun had stopped shaking and remained pointed at the limp form as it rolled, ready to shot again if the boy twitched.

At the apex of the roll, his right hand flicked out with such calculated speed her optics couldn't register the move before it was too late. Glass shattered, and was joined by an unearthly howl of agony and the crack of another gun shot. IX continued his roll, avoiding the bullet, but not the sharp chips of cement that bit into the left side of his face before he was out of range.

Megan's violent screams ripped through the room, and she clawed at the small throwing knife imbedded in her left optic. Her nails raked over flesh, painting her face with blood. The initial wound hadn't had enough strength behind it to prove fatal, but when her anguished shrieks reached a new pitch, and the flesh around both eyes began to smoke, IX realized that the metal of the blade had disrupted the circuitry of the implant. The blackening skin began to bubble and hiss as it was cooked from the inside out by the malfunction.

With a final desperate howl, she turned and ran, crashing headlong into the door that had closed behind her when she'd first entered the room. Twitching, the silent body collapsed, only the dark bottom of the hilt showing in the hole where her optic had once been.

Staggering to his feet, IX closed his eyes and focused. A crackling wave of power erupted from him, ripping through the room, causing screens to explode and frying the electronics, plunging the room into darkness. Biting his bloody lip, IX turned on his heel and vanished.

* * *

"Are you certain that the S.T.A.R.T Team is the best choice, sir?" the Voice inquired, pulling up the personnel files for review.

"This is the perfect opportunity for The Special Threat Action Response Team to gain experience and demonstrate to the Public that they are safe in the hands of the team," the Director stated, _and by having an outside department bring the 'renegade' project in, no one will question the validity of Weapon X's malfunction._

With a click of the mouse, he pulled up the first file. "By allowing them this opportunity, we are giving them legitimacy and experience. This will be the first time they've gone on a true mission, and success will bolster their belief in themselves, as well as sooth the public over the mutant menace."

"Of course, sir."

Ice blue eyes lined in the wrinkles of old age glittered with the sharpness of a much younger man while he studied the file. Weapons IX and X were proving more valuable than he'd imagined. First by eliminating the Null Program in a legitimate manner that the board would accept, and now by giving the START team a chance to prove their worth. Even though the team was mostly a publicity stunt to ease the minds of the average Canadian in a world that had become riddled with overpowered beings, they were still highly trained individuals. With the proper seasoning, they would be a valuable strike team. They just had to get their feet wet first before other departments would be willing to risk implementing them.

The entire project was crafted with the Public in mind. Each of the five member team was chosen for both their skills, and the impact their image would have on the team as a whole. After their formation, they had become as popular in Canada as the original seven astronauts had been in American. Much like those fabled heroes of outer space, this team was perfect.

First was the Commander. Angus Trent was a brisk, square-jawed man that leant the entire team a futuristic air due to the fact that he'd been recruited from the Lilliputian astronaut corps. As one of the first Canadians to venture into space, Trent gained automatic notoriety and was considered one of the country's largest heart throbs.

The second-in-command had been chosen not only to please the French-Canadians, but to add an air of intrigue to the team. Marcel Le Quont was something of a rogue with a checkered past that spanned time spent in the French Foreign legion as well as numerous public liaisons with young starlets, celebrities, and recording artists. His love life had become almost as legendary as the team itself. Much of his spare time was spent in the company of a famous Australian film star, and the two were often spotted drinking to excess at exclusive parties. In spite of his scandalous life style, or perhaps because of it, he was well loved in his native Quebec.

Opening another file, the Director held back an amused smile. The woman could put most men to shame, and the fact that she was the tallest member of the team made him grin. Some men might have felt insulted by the manly woman, but the Director had outgrown such macho foolishness, and he believed that she helped keep the rest of the team humble.

Sarah Blake was the politically correct choice, giving the team its obligatory female member. However, she was far more than a skirt to appease the liberals. Prior to joining the team, she had been a liaison between the Canadian Royal Navy and the U.S. Navy. This experience made her the choice candidate for being the first female to enter the Navy SEALs training. In spite of public outcry and doubt, she completed the program with honors. From there, Black continued to peruse feats of strength that most would never accomplish. She climbed Everest, ran with the bulls in Spain and swam not only the English Channel, but the Amazon as well.

Charles Drum, the youngest member, was also the only member of the team who was a mutant. After being recruited out of the Joint Task Forces Two he was tested and found to have a mutation that gave him phenomenal speed and near supernatural reaction time. This mutation served him well in hand-to-hand combat, and he'd mastered a number of martial arts before joining the military. During testing, the scientists deduced that Drum could anticipate an attack on an unconscious level, giving him the ability to dodge any projectile shot at him.

The final member of the team was a counter-terrorism expert and START's Chief of intelligence Willi von Trakker was a twice-decorated member of the JTF-2, and prior to joining that organization had served in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police's Special Emergency Response Team.

All five members of the team were known celebrities in Canada, whose names were spoken in both awe and reverence by the country's youth. Closing the files, the Director sat back and smiled. Yes, he'd handpicked the team well, and now they were coming to fruition. Even though there was nothing linking him directly to START, he'd recognized the need for such a response team when the problem of Mutations had become public knowledge.

Leaning back with a low sigh when his spine crackled in protest, the Director waited for the show to begin.

* * *

After watching Tiny slaughter everyone and then burn them all to greasy cinders, Thomas didn't know what to do. He couldn't be the only one to return to Second Chance. The citizens were hungry for blood. If he returned now, after his escape to inform them that the rest were never coming home, they would tear him apart.

Trekking out of the valley and back to civilization wasn't impossible, but doing it without the proper equipment would be suicide. Straightening his broad shoulders, he accepted what had to be done. If Thomas wanted to survive, he would have to return to the cave and lay low for a while. Then he could sneak into the town and gather enough supplies to make the hike. Assuming he didn't take a knife in the heart the second he stepped into the cave, or end up being gutted by the Wildman for trespassing, it was the best plan he had.

"Right, instead of slow suicide I've opted for the fast approach," he said to the bitter wind, refusing to acknowledge the hysterical edge the words held. Night was closing in, and the temperature began to plummet back into the negatives, informing the native that the need for shelter was becoming vital. Steeling his frayed nerves, Thomas began climbing. He forced his gaze to remain forward, refusing to look at the scorched stone that was the only remnants of friend and enemy alike.

When he'd first met the pair, he had foolishly believed that the Wildman was the more dangerous. Now he knew the truth, Tiny was Death in human form. When that one decided your ticket was up, that was it, game over, end of story.  _I hope I never find myself in his sights_ , Thomas thought with a shudder, knowing that he'd already been the small man's target on more than one occasion, and it was a miracle he'd survived as long as he had.

The cave was cold and empty by the time he reached it, and to his disgust, he was grateful to find it so. Maybe they'd finished whatever it was they were meant to do here, and were gone for good. In his gut, Thomas didn't believe it, but it was a nice thought, and it helped chase away the certainty of death that seemed to hang like a dark cloud over his head. The side of the cave was still stocked with dry fire wood, and at some point, the Wildman had dug a troth into the hard stone, and filled it with clear water. Thomas scouted out the small living space before returning his attention to the fire pit. Before long, the damp chill of the cave was replaced with gentle warmth, and the soft glow of firelight.

He spotted his worn backpack tucked into the shadows and retrieved it. Digging through the pack, he found a couple of MRE's missing, but there were enough left for a few days. Thomas was about to rip open one of the packs of sludge when he heard the sharp crack of Tiny's freaky transportation method. "Shit," he cursed, dropping the pack and scrambling backward.

Glazed green eyes locked on his face, and Thomas stiffened at the dead look they held. A fine tremor tingled down his spine when the glitter of a throwing knife winked in the firelight between blood soaked fingers. Tiny took one step towards him, his arm raising in slow motion to throw. There wasn't a Wildman to intervene this time, and Thomas opened his mouth already knowing there were no words to halt the blade.

* * *

It wasn't often that the Canadians asked for support from the U.S.A, but these were damned strange times, and it made for odd bedfellows. Captain Peter Mondellow drained the rest of his bland coffee before tossing the paper cup into a plastic lined box next to his seat.  _Bloody eco-jerks, I want Styrofoam back. Who cares if the crap doesn't disintegrate, it keeps my fingers from being scorched_. Grunting, he rubbed his red fingertips against the smooth controls to ease the mild burn. How he hated the hoops the military had to jump through to satisfy all the PR bastards.

"Captain Mondellow, you have the all clear. The aircraft is provisioned, refueled and ready to roll. All that's left are the guests of honor, and they're crossing the tarmac now," Lieutenant Benteen's voice crackled through the speaker.

Glancing down at the tarmac, Mondellow said, "Here they are now, thanks for the heads up."

"It has been an honor to aid members of the United States Air Force, sir."

"At ease, Lieutenant. I must say that I'm impressed with the fully automated airstrip. We were able to get the craft refueled and stocked in record time."

"Efficiency is my religion, sir," Benteen replied, pride shining in his tone.

"Perhaps after the mission I can convert you."

"Sir?"

"You know, go out have a couple drinks, find a few lovely ladies to share our company," Mondellow said.

"That would be…interesting," Benteen replied, opting not to mention his unique condition which rendered his bar days long past.

Signing off, the Captain stood and gave a languid stretch. "Well, I suppose I ought to go down and welcome the celebs," he told his co-pilot.

A baritone laugh met the words. "You should have left earlier if you wanted to be part of the welcoming committee. Mary Pat, Lisa, and Radar Ruth have already departed and are no doubt swooning at their feet while we speak."

Stifling a disgruntled snort, Mondellow climbed down the metal stairs to greet the new comers who were being fawned over by the three female officers of his twelve-person crew. They didn't even notice his arrival. Instead, their mooning eyes were locked on the black-clad figures striding like conquering heroes over the wind swept tarmac.

After spotting the rank on one of the men's uniforms, Captain Mondellow nudged his way past the ogling females and saluted. "Captain Peter Mondellow, United States Air Force Special Operations Command."

"Commander Trent," the man responded before offering a salute of his own. Once all the introductions were finished, the team joined Mondellow on his exterior preflight check. While they conducted the inspection, the Captain was able to observe the Canadians.

After the inspection both of the aircraft, and the team was complete, Mondellow decided the commander of START was perhaps the most disappointing. A name like Angus Trent conjured the image of a mountain man with massive lumber jack arms and a gruff personality.

Instead, the Commander wasn't tall or well built. In fact, he possessed delicate patrician features. The neatly trimmed mustache gave him an effete air, and he had the aloofness that women seemed to go crazy for. The man was more interested in the mission at hand than the females who fawned over him.

The shortest member of the team was Marcel Le Quont, with features more rugged than the Commander's. His chin was pronounced, and his nose had clearly met something hard on more than one occasion. Thickly muscled arms blended naturally into a heavy barrel chest. Unlike the Commander, he flirted outrageously with the woman, and watched them all with his dark, intense eyes.

The woman outstripped all the men when it came to height, even Mondellow had to look up at her. Sarah Black was slim-hipped with delicate barely-there breasts. Her arms were long and gangly under her flight suit. Her face was a slim triangle of fine bone, looking at odds with the strong body, and her most defining feature was a pair of penetrating green eyes that seemed to strip a man of his flesh to look inside his soul. As a former member of the Navy SEALs, Mondellow wasn't surprised to see that Sarah's hair had been cropped off to mere stubble.

Willi Von Trakker was quietly aloft. The blond rarely looked anyone in the eye and Mondellow recognized him as the intel puke on sight. No matter the service, intelligence officers all had that weedy rabbit look about them.

Of the lot of them, Charles Drum was perhaps the most charismatic. The compact man was a ball of raw nerve endings that never seemed to still. Every movement was graceful and controlled, but there was something about the man that felt like a tightly wound spring ready to explode into action at the slightest provocation.

After observing them all together, Mondellow couldn't understand why the woman all flocked to the coldly aloft Trent, and passed up on Drum.  _Ah well, I guess it's the same as it always was. High school forever._

Perhaps their admiration could be attributed to age. At forty-four he was easily double that of any of his flight crew, but this was the first time he'd felt old by comparison. Drawing the team's attention, he motioned them towards the aircraft.

Mondellow straightened his cuffs and lead the way up the ladder and into a compartment the size of a small room. Clearing his throat, Mondellow spoke. "The craft you're standing in is a modified version of the C-130 Hercules. It is one of the most versatile cargo aircraft in the world. On your right, there's a twenty-five-millimeter Gatling cannon. That bad boy can lay down over eighteen hundred rounds of ammunition from an altitude of twelve thousand feet in less than a minute."

One of the men gave a low whistle. Moving forward, Mondellow showed them down a long corridor. "Your gear is located here," he pointed to a stack of crates. "While in flight, you can prepare for your mission in the compartment."

After grabbing a pair of crates each, von Trakker and Le Quont headed for the prep area.

"At the rear of the aircraft, you'll find the forty-millimeter Bofos gun, and a hundred and five-millimeter Howitzer that fires out of the side for the fuselage." A bold grin curved Mondellow's lips. "Your government demanded a bird with firepower, and the U.S Air force delivered, wouldn't you say?"

"Indeed. The aircraft is perfect for this mission, and your crew appears well versed in its use." Commander Trent replied. "I would prefer to avoid the backup firepower if possible. We'll know more after we bail out in either case."

Frantic activity bustled around the two stationary men. "My apologies Captain, but I'm going to have to cut the tour short to help my men prepare for the upcoming mission."

Captain Mondellow gave a shallow nod of agreement. "Very well, sir. The airship will take off in five. We'll arrive over the designated search area at oh-three-hundred hours."

* * *

_Clink_. The small but lethal blade slipped from the assassin's fingertips and fell to the ground an instant before he collapsed. Thomas tried to swallow, but it felt like his throat was clogged with cotton balls, and it took the native a few seconds to comprehend that he'd been spared. Again.

The low gurgling breaths jolted his thoughts back into gear with a near audible pop when he realized the small man hadn't killed him because he was wounded. Part of him, a larger part than he cared to admit, advised him to let the killer bleed out. The short man was bound to be the death of him, and by not acting, he was saving his own life.

No. Thomas couldn't repay a life debt by standing aside and allowing the one who'd saved him to die. "Hold on kid, you'll be alright, just hold on," Thomas sighed, bent over, and picked up the startlingly light male. He was signing his own death warrant, but there were things in life more important than dying, and Honor was one of them. Setting his burden down on the makeshift pallet, Thomas stifled a gasp when he saw the bullet wound in the narrow chest. Blood gurgled sluggishly from the hole that was too close to the boy's heart for comfort.  _How in the name of the west wind is he still alive?_

Ripping the shirt off, he used the torn material for a compression bandage, thankful that the boy was unconscious and couldn't feel the pain. Blood soaked his hands, but there wasn't more he could do. Without surgery, his chances at survival were non-existent. Thomas's time in the war had taught him a great deal about field dressing wounds, and what a man could and couldn't survive. The bullet had damaged Tiny's lung and probably nicked the heart. Studying the pale bloodstained face, so frighteningly young looking, Thomas cursed under his breath. He knew that the kid had been screwed around with by the Government, and was little more than a killing machine, but knowing he was going to die hurt. Somehow, the brat had grown on him.

Hazy emerald eyes snapped open, almost making Thomas jump back. He fought down the urge, and continued to press down against the bandage. "Sorry kid, I know it hurts like a son of a bitch," he attempted to sooth, and wondered if he was about to get a short knife between the ribs for his effort.

Instead, the boy didn't appear to notice him.  _IX, report._

"Operation Obsolete was successfully completed. A cleanup team is needed on site. I sustained damage during the final altercation," each word held the bubbling rasp of a lung wound, but didn't have the pinched quality that Thomas was familiar with, signifying the extreme pain he knew the other man had to be in. He kept perfectly still, not wanting to draw the assassin's attention in any way. How he was in contact with his superior was unclear, but the native didn't doubt that was the case. Best to play least in sight, and not end up getting a kill order dropped on his head by reminding Tiny that he wasn't alone.

_All of the targets were neutralized?_

"Yes, sir."

_Estimated recovery time?_

"Six hours." A harsh cough sent a spray of blood over Thomas's chest, and he wondered if the boy was giving an estimate for how long he would survive the fatal wound.  _Six hours is a stretch, I'd give him two, three tops. They'll have to move quick if they want to patch him up before he's lost too much blood._ "I will be ready to finish the second half of the mission then."

Thomas gaped, not believing what he was hearing. No way. There was no possibility he was walking away from a wound like this in six hours. Hell, without surgical intervention, he wouldn't be walking away period.

_Acceptable. Report in when the second phase is complete._

"Yes, sir."

The conversation appeared to be over, and Thomas offered a weak smile when the small man's full attention fell on him. He didn't back away, instead he remained in his kneeling position, pressing both large hands down on the bloody cloth that had once been a shirt.

Another rasping breath whispered between bloodstained lips, but the ominous rattle sounded less pronounced than it had when he'd first began applying pressure. "That is no longer necessary. I have stopped the blood loss. The rest of the healing will require time to accomplish."

"The rest of the…"  _A spike of wood, longer than most knives and soaked with his blood, the slick scar that was all that remained of an injury that should have killed him._ "Oh, uh…right." Feeling foolish for having forgotten, Thomas sat back on his heels. He hesitantly pulled his hands away, expecting the blood to being flowing again, even though he'd experienced Tiny's healing ability first hand. "Are you going to be alright Tiny?"

"IX."

"What?"

"My name is IX," came the tired reply.

"Nine? Are you joking? What happened to the other eight?" Thomas sputtered.

"That is classified."

Thomas rolled his eyes at the familiar answer, and couldn't help giving the injured man a fond smile.

* * *

"The target was reported headed due east after the failed attempt at capture by the Weapon Null program. We will begin grid searching from the last known location," Captain Mondellow informed them. "We'll notify you when the target had been spotted."

"Roger that," Trent replied before heading back to the compartment that held his team to finish the final preparations. Cool eyes inspected the team and gave a sharp nod of satisfaction when he saw they were prepared to make the combat jump into the landing zone the moment the target was acquired. Their helmets were open. It would only take a second to flip down the visors, pressurize their Stark Industries Flex-Shield combat survival suits, and activate the optic display located inside their helmets before making the jump.

Each member who would be engaging the enemy directly also wore a High Altitude Wing Kite. Blake, Drum, and Le Quont sported ebony wings to blend into the night, whereas Trent's 'wings' were made of opaque sheets of plastic containing fluorescent gasses. When triggered, the wings would explode into brilliant illumination.

The HAWK harness system was a highly developed personal flight unit designed by the Strategic Hazard Intervention Espionage Logistics Division, known by most as SHIELD. All members of the team were required to master the HAWK before they were fully integrated because of the extreme versatility of the system. It was the most advanced tool in use for insertion into a hot landing Zone because the user was able to control both the speed and angle of decent. That made the HAWK more reliable than parachuting into danger zones.

After being fitted into their battle armor and rigged with HAWK, the members of START strapped their weapons of choice over forearms and on their backs. Every mission utilized specialized weaponry tailored to the task at hand. For Weapon X, they broke out the full arsenal.

Commander Trent's penetrating gaze double checked each member's gear, and he noticed their posture still held a hint of nerves after the preparation. "Alright team, from the top." Low groans met this declaration, but the nervousness began to dissipate when they focused on their individual tasks.

"Right. The four of us will decent on Weapon X from all angles," Le Quont started.

Nodding, Trent added, "Then I'll drop in front of it and blast it with the flash attack. That won't put it down, or even hurt it, but I'm hoping it will be disorientated enough for-"

"Me to strike," Le Quont interrupted, tapping his holstered weapon.

"And I open fire in tandem from a different direction," Blake added, stroking the butt of her gun with one gloved hand.

"Together, we'll nail Weapon X with chemical heat. Two to four darts if possible," Le Quont said. "We have to be careful when firing these bad boys."

"Precisely," Commander Trent agreed. "This cannot be stressed enough. We can't fire the Boiler off at random and risk friendly fire. One slip, and you'll be a ketchup packet in under thirty seconds. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir!" They chorused in unison.

"Alright, after the darts take effect, I'll dive in and blanket it in the variable-frequency stun net. That will stun Weapon X," Charles Drum added with an excided bounce.

"If we manage to stick it with four to six darts, even Weapon X's accelerated healing factor will strain to keep up, and might even be overrun," Trent stated. "Between the Boiler, and the shock net, we should be able to render the target docile. I'm hoping we'll get lucky and render it unconscious."

"Unconscious would be best," Le Quont added.

"Damned straight," Drum agreed.

"If we are unable to bring it down using the darts and net, what's the plan?" Blake asked.

"Each of you are equipped with secondary weaponry, I highly suggest you utilize it," Trent stated, and glanced out the tiny window at the dusky sky flecked with stars. "Should that fail, then whoever's left standing will paint the mark with lasers and call Willi. The gunship will rain hell down on Weapon X. There won't be a hangnail left of the beast to regenerate."

The inner lights of the compartment dimmed to a sullen scarlet when Willi Von Trakker's voice crackled through the team's headsets.

"The target has been located," he declared. "Weapon X is traversing the easternmost side of the mountain."

Excitement flared in the intelligence officer's words, and sparked equal emotion in the rest of the team. Adrenalin was dumped into their system, joining the excitement when they were struck with a single thought.

_This time, it was real_.

"Weapon X is in the open. He's entered a level plateau that will prove optimal for the mission. I'm sending the coordinates to your HUD's now," Willi informed them.

"Pressurize now," Trent commanded.

With swift efficiency, the team closed their visors, and listened to the long hiss that indicated pressurization was successful. The GPS navigation located in the helmets flickered to glowing green life, showing a detailed map of the terrain, and a white blip marking Weapon X's position.

"Open the hatch," came Trent's sharp command over the headsets.

A loud pop, followed by a hiss sounded before the hatch in the floor slid open. Night wind whipped into the compartment and buffeted the black suited warriors as they engaged in a final gear check.

"Are we ready?"

The team faced him over the gaping hole, and gave him a thumbs up. Through her visor, Trent saw Blake smile weakly. All the training in the world couldn't stand in for the first engagement with a real target.

"See you on the ground," Trent said, before he stepped calmly forward, and fell through the opening to be swallowed by darkness.

* * *

Weapon X studied the open terrain and knew this would be the field of battle. His body ached in protest against the orders to deliberately hold himself back, but he would follow IX command. Once he saw his little mate again, he was going to give him a sharp nip as punishment for putting him in this position.

The dull throb of engines in the sky alerted him, and with a guttural snarl he unsheathed his claws. Darkness held sway over the cold landscape, untouched by the absent moon, and even the stars were obscured by drifting clouds. The world seemed to hold its breath in anticipation. Drinking in the frosted night air, X sought his prey's scent, waiting for the attack.

A howling wind broke the silence, and Weapon X wheeled around, sensing eyes on his back. His lips pealed back into a fierce snarl when a bat-like creature dropped out of the sky in front of him. Bringing his arms up, he feigned a swipe, forcing down the instinct to inflict a killing wound.

* * *

Commander Trent whipped to the side in time to avoid the attack. Using the sensors in his right glove, he activated the twin repulsion units to slow and halt his decent. With a crisp snap, the rigged wings unfurled in front of X's startled face. Snarling, the Weapon lashed out again, but the man was just out of reach. The commander appeared to hover on wings of opaque plastic before triggering the reaction. Light, more brilliant than burning phosphorus, seemed to explode out of the wings like a giant flashbulb. White luminescence bathed the wind swept plateau, making the snow glitter like a field of diamonds.

* * *

In seconds, the light had drained from the wings, leaving undeluded darkness in their wake. Unfortunately, the damage had been done, and X's night vision was destroyed. He was effectively blind. His eyes watered in reaction to the attack, and all he saw was flashing white from the light still bouncing around behind his retinas.

Discarding sight, Weapon X focused on his other senses to track his prey. It was a game he and IX often played for the amusement of their trainers. They would be placed in the training ground, and the lights would be cut out to force them to hunt in total darkness. The bouncing light in his head gave it a new twist, but it was in essence the same game.

The mechanical hum of miniature jet engines caught the Weapon's attention. Closing his eyes, X focused his full attention on the sound. The strike had to be timed perfectly. The whine passed over his head, and he lashed out. Adamantium flashed, and the squeal of escaping gas met his ears when they tore a violent path through the right wing. With a grinding pop, the wing collapsed. Cursing, the winged man lost control and spun before crashing into a snowbank fifteen feet away.

Grunting in disgust, Weapon X turned away instead of pursuing the kill as he normally would. It didn't matter, he'd caught the buzz of more wings cutting through the night towards him. He whirled at the sound of a soft metallic ping. The large muscles in his back jumped in reaction when something pricked them. A second cut smoothly into his throat before a third hissed by his right ear.

Reaching up, he plucked the small dart free and tossed it aside with a rasping growl that could almost pass for a laugh. How often had the scientists attempted to use tranquilizers on him? Every attempt, with every know drug and a few that were invented with him in mind, had failed. Pathetic, if that was all they had going for them, then losing to them would be an insu-

Pain bloomed like a terrible rose at the site of the injection before it ripped through his bloodstream, leaving purest torment in its wake. A howling scream was wrenched from his barrel like chest when the gut-churning agony reached a pinnacle he'd never experienced before, not when the scientists experimented on him to test his regenerative capabilities, not when the burning man's breath had stripped him of his very flesh. The whole world was defined by the waves of catastrophic agony.

Gasping, X tried to scream, but a jet of boiling blood erupted from his throat to fan over the pristine snow. He fell to his knees, and savored the deliciously cold ice that turned to steam under his broiling flesh.

* * *

Each dart was filled with a compound that attacked the human hemoglobin once it was introduced into the bloodstream. The reaction was violent, forcing the cells to come to a fast boil within the system, effectively turning a victim's own blood in to hot oil, destroying everything in its path. The nasty little cocktail was the result of years of research by some of the top biochemists in the world.

The Boiler was instantly fatal to the average human, but START realized that it was unlikely to have the same effect on something like Weapon X. Their main goal was to incapacitate the Weapon long enough to give them a window to secure it.

After what felt like eternity, the pain began to subside when his healing factor conquered the poison. In seconds, the scalding heat dissipated, and his cells repaired themselves.

Two more darts sped out of the darkness to sink into his flesh, but now all he felt was a minor burn at the injection site that quickly faded. His body had learned the makeup of the compound, and broke it down before it could react with his blood.

Standing, Weapon X threw his head back and roared a challenge to the man infested sky.

* * *

With a sputtering cough, the jets on Marcel Le Quont's harness died. The HAWK harnesses had a limited fuel tank, so that wasn't unexpected. However, dropping directly in front of the infuriated Weapon just after the effects of the chemical wore off, and his vision cleared, was not part of the plan.

Bracing himself, Le Quont struck the snow and fell into a fighting stance. The discarded harness flitted to the ground behind him like a dying moth. He brought his gun up to fire another dart, but before he could pull the trigger, savage claws slashed over his chest, following the line of his arm, and bisecting the gun. It took all Weapon X's skill not to do more than surface damage. Blood, hot and sweet, arched through the air in an impressive spray.

Le Quont staggered back with a guttural cry. His uninjured arm coiled around the chest wound as the remains of his weapon fell from numb fingers. Stumbling, he fell to his knees, and bowed his head in anticipation of the finishing blow. Before Weapon X could take a step forward, Blake dove out of the sky. Her booted feet slammed into the back of X's skull followed by the full muscled weight of the woman, plowing him into the ground face first. Sarah rolled with the fall, and shot to her feet in front of Le Quont, her secondary weapon already drawn and firing into Weapon X's broad back.

"Now Drum!" She shouted into her headset.

A net that shimmered like spider silk fell from the sky and draped over Weapon X's fallen form. Over a thousand volts of raw electricity tore through his body, locking his muscles. He could have broken free, but forced himself to fall limp save for the jolting that made his body twitch and thrash under the relentless current.

His breath exploded out of his chest in a harsh woof when Drum's booted feet crashed into the middle of his back, and it took everything X had not to throw the man off. While X was distracted by the one on his back, Blake dove forward and plowed her knee into the back of his neck. Her hands locked in his hair to control his face. A precaution that served her well when he attempted to whip his head around to sink his teeth into her thigh.

The power of the net didn't touch the team, whose armor had been fitted with a base rubber that grounded them. Drum knelt on the weapon's back, expertly riding the bucking motions, his mutation compensating for X's every attempt to unseat him. Commander Trent waded into the mess and flung himself across the back of the Weapon's legs, carful to keep out of the path of the extended claws.

"Get those restraints on him now," Trent snarled, his right arm jolting in agony when one of X's leg's crashed into it, fully dislocating his shoulder from the impact. Moving with the speed of a hungry mongoose, Drum's gloved hands darted though the gaps in the net and forced the Weapon's arms behind its back. Shackles that had been designed specifically for this mission bit down on the limbs, locking them together from elbow to wrist, incapacitating the claws that made X so deadly.

Twisting, he moved lower, and smoothly turned his head aside when the extended claws attempted to cleave his face open. Using his unnatural speed to duck and dodge, Drum was able to bind Weapon X's legs at the upper thigh, knee, calf, and ankles. "Still got the front end?" Drum asked.

"Ye-," the sharp crack of bone on bone sounded and she cursed before another thump was heard when she drove his face back into the ice sheathed stone. "Yes. He's secure. Willi, send down the cage," she barked, growling under her breath when X's head twisted again beneath her hand. Even now, beaten and rendered helpless, he still fought the hold.

"Roger that," Willi's voice crackled over the radio before the sound of chopper blades became deafening. A square cage, five feet by five, descended from the open belly of the air craft. It landed with a dull thump in front of them. "Also send down a medevac team for Le Quont."

"Commander, can you open the cage?" Drum asked, deftly avoiding another jerk of the claws. Now that they were trapped behind him, dodging was effortless. Trent stood, his face paled when the move jolted his dislocated arm, but he gave a firm nod, knowing that Drum was trying to get him out of the way without insinuating that he wasn't fit enough to finish the mission. "Blake, on the count of three, let go. I'll take the front, you get his legs, and watch out for those damned claws. Just because he can't swing them around anymore doesn't mean they aren't dangerous."

Blake rolled her eyes at the protectiveness in his tone before she leapt on his count. Moving faster than the eye could follow, Drum sprang forward. Cold metal snapped shut around X's throat, so tight he could hardly breathe under the pressure.

"Bloody hell," Blake grunted as she hefted her end of the Weapon. Together, she and Drum and to manhandle X into the cage, and long before it was over they were both cursing their injured teammates for leaving all the heavy work to them.

"Come on….Blake…you always could out lift me in the…gym," Le Quont huffed while he was strapped into a gurney. Blood loss made it hard to focus, but he couldn't help teasing her after all the shit she gave him during their workouts.

"Yeah, yeah," she grumbled, and slammed the door closed. In the cage, Weapon X kneeled. Chains bolted into the bottom of the cage were now connected to the collar, forcing him to bow over his knees. More chains were linked to the arm maniacs, and the shackles around his legs. He was bound so tightly he could barely twitch.

"The weapon has been secured, and is locked down. Take it up," Commander Trent ordered, and gave a grim smile of satisfaction when the cage rose into the air.

"That's a wrap people. Let's get the package delivered and get patched up," he finished, pride shining in his tone.

* * *

Magic formed a warm ball in his chest, and under its gentle persuasion, torn flesh and shattered bone knitted together with unnatural speed. Just like when IX had been a defenseless child, that inner power rose up to protect its vessel from wounds that would have snuffed out his life. Closing his eyes, IX focused on the power. His skills in healing were rarely tested due to his extensive training, and this was the worst injury he'd received. Once X had marked him, even in battle testing, the larger male would pull his blows, leaving only minor damage behind.

Sinking into his body, IX studied the power, learning its flavor so that he could better control it in the future. It was different from when he healed others. This power wasn't a beam of power that could destroy as easily as it created. No, this was more like a soft rain that soaked into the damaged flesh and left healing in its wake.

He felt the power drain away once the healing was finished, slipping back into his core to sleep until it was needed again. A rich warm scent greeted his return to consciousness, and IX sat up with slow grace. Stretching, he felt his newly healed muscles creak under the movement, but felt no lingering pain.

Thomas stared in shock at the youth when he sat up and began to unwind the bandages. As the hours passed, he'd become certain IX would die. He had to die. No one, besides the Wildman, could survive taking a bullet to the chest without medical attention. Shaking his head, he could only blink when the pale, whole chest was revealed. Not even a scar remained to mark the near fatal wound. "How?" he breathed.

"That is classified."

"You know what kid? That answer is getting old fast."

IX didn't appear to be fazed by his words. Instead the small male looked to the fire. There, a small collapsible pot that had been stashed in his bag simmered among the flames. "Hungry?" Thomas asked, hoping that he could distract the assassin with food, thereby prolonging his life a little longer.

"Yes," came the bland reply. IX stood and padded over to the fire to sit across from the hunter.

"I've already eaten, so the rest is yours," Thomas offered.

Nodding, IX used a stick to hook the handle and draw it out of the fire. "This is good," IX stated dryly. Cooking meat over the fire had been good, but this was better still. Thomas frowned.  _Sure the food was better than the MREs, but not by much_ he thought, before realization dawned.

"What, didn't they ever let you eat real food kid?"

"My meals consisted of a proper balance of nutrients to facilitate my training and growth."

Disgust wrinkled Thomas's nose. "That sounds about as appetizing as cardboard." IX didn't respond. He hadn't known food could have a flavor prior to leaving the facility, but he decided that he preferred flavor to the non-flavor of his usual fair. There, his meals had been as bland as his personality, untouched by spice or anything else that wasn't deemed necessary to his survival.

IX scraped the last bite of stew out of the bottom of the pot before he set it aside and stood. Sucking a breath between his teeth, Thomas watched the assassin wearily. The pounding of his heart eased a bit when the kid didn't pull one of those wretched little knives out. Instead, the youth walked past him without a word and headed for the mouth of the cave. Thomas tried to call out, and ask where IX was going, but self-perseveration locked his throat around the words. He didn't know what the kid was up to, and IX wasn't going to tell him, but asking might remind the small male about the knife he'd almost pinned Thomas with when he'd first appeared.

No, Thomas was willing to sit back in silence, and not question why he was still breathing. That seemed like the best way to maintain that state of existence.

* * *

IX stepped out of the shadows and into Thomas's cabin. Glancing around the Hunter's living place, he found a field pack and went through the cabin packing up those things the man would need to survive. Once finished, he vanished again, and appeared on the edge of the little village.

He set the bag aside, and pulled one of his daggers out. Without flinching, IX laid the blade across first his left palm, then his right, cutting a deep slash in each. He could feel his magic well up to heal the wounds, but redirected it instead to focus in the blood that now dripped into the snow. Holding his hands out to the sides so that the blood could flow unhindered. He began pacing with slow, deliberate steps around the cluster of homes, leaving behind a trail of magic laced blood in his wake.

When he reached the start of the circle, he allowed the magic to heal the self-inflicted injuries before entering the town again. Like the Lord that once stalked through Egypt, snuffing out the lives of the first born, IX moved with grim purpose through the town. Only, for Second Chance, there was no lambs' blood to bar his entry, and it wasn't just the first born who would feel his wrath.

An hour passed as he slipped from home to home, killing with such quiet grace that partners who shared the same bed didn't wake when their loved one's blood was spilled. Standing over a cradle, Weapon X looked down at the sleeping infant whose thumb was snuggly secured between plump lips. Her parents had made the journey into death already, and their blood dripped from the knife onto the small pink teddy that guarded the child's sleep.

Like a serpent slipping into an unguarded nest, his knife lashed out. The sharp blade sank deep, piercing the fluttering heart with such precision that the child's life slipped away before the pain woke her from gentle dreams. Weapon IX's orders had been clear, no member of Second Chance was to survive the night.

As silent as a ghost in the wind, he moved on to the next house.

* * *

The Librarian sat back in his worn armchair, and filled his pipe. A blazing fire warmed his small cabin to a cozy level, and a small lamp at his chair side table cast enough light to read by. Groaning softly, he shifted in his chair again. His bones creaked in miserable protest against the season, and complained bitterly about their lifestyle. Living out here in the middle of nowhere was for the young, but he was too set in his ways to leave.

Cold air sliced through the fire heated cabin and snaked down his bent spine. Turning, the Librarian could only watch as his door creaked open fully, and revealed the blood spattered youth on his door step.

Seeing the light, IX had left this home for last. He couldn't risk an alarm being raised and the citizens waking.

"You're the other one Thomas talked about, aren't you boy? The knife thrower that was with the Wildman the day Thomas shot him," the Librarian's voice didn't shake, but it was rougher than normal. The boy inclined his head.

"I am."

"I see. I suppose our menfolk weren't enough payment then?" When the posse hadn't returned, no others were sent. The blow to the community had been great, and they couldn't risk further angering the Wildman.

Weapon IX studied the old man. "It is not a question of payment. It is about national security. This community interfered in matters greater than itself. Because of that, it became a liability that cannot be tolerated."

The Librarian shuttered at the dead tone, and knew that he and the boy were the only living people in town.

"Thomas was right then. Fires spread, and even the innocent burn," he said forlornly before closing his eyes and taking a deep puff on his pipe. He didn't flinch when the knife slid over his throat, adding his lifeblood to the boy's stained hands.

Cleaning the knife, IX slipped it away and headed outside to finish the task. He returned to the place he'd left Thomas's pack, and turned to face the town. Drawing in a deep breath, Weapon IX opened his eyes and focused.

"Burn."

A dragon of flame was born, and gave a triumphant roar before it flung itself into the heart of the small village. More beasts broke off, devouring everything in their path, feasting on homes, books, and bodies with equal greed. Sweat dotted IX's forehead, and he poured his magic into the blood ring he'd constructed to contain the hell fire. His green gaze burned with the wicked flames while his own inner power gave them life. Then he felt the shift, and the drain cut off.

Now the fire took on life of its own, independent of its creator. The roaring pillar of flame ripped through the land, leaving desolation in its wake before it crashed into the blood barrier and was halted.

IX swayed when the savage power snarled, lashing out at his protection, but his strength held.

"Enough," he gasped, and began closing the circle, herding the fire back into the center of the town. This was the largest fire he'd ever conjured, and magic gushed out of him like blood from a severed artery. His shield fluctuated, and almost shattered when the enchanted fire fought for control.

"I Said Enough!" IX shouted and slammed his hands together. With a crash like thunder, the shield collapsed in on itself, snuffing out the flames in one crushing blow.

IX fell with the shield, his power drained to near fatal levels.

* * *

After IX left, Thomas decided to slip back into town to get his supplies. It was time to move on. Even if the town forgave him, and took him back, Thomas would never feel comfortable living there again, knowing he'd failed to save the idiots on the mountain from themselves.

Hiking down the mountain in the dark hadn't been pleasant, but Thomas made good time. His feet hesitated on the trail when brilliant golden light bloomed out of the darkness. So much light. It was brighter than the fires the fat man started were. Dread filled Thomas's heart, and he broke into a stumbling run. When the trees broke up enough for him to see, his legs gave out, sending him tumbling into the snow.

Still his head remained up, his dark eyes wide with torment as he stared at the towering mountain of fire that engulfed the town. At the base of the fire, a tiny figure stood, arms outstretched, commanding the demon flames in their hellish task. Then those delicate hands slammed together, and Thomas was blown off his feet by the backlash of power.

Blood trickled into his eyes from the shallow gash on his forehead, but Thomas didn't notice. He staggered to his feet and ran. Again his feet faltered, almost spilling him back to the ground when he saw the shattered, blackened stone where a village once stood. There weren't even the burned out husks of homes to show that this place had once been inhabited. Shaking, he turned away and almost tripped over the crumpled heap on the ground.

Thomas stared down at the fallen boy, hate boiling in his veins. He snatched his hunting knife out of its sheath and leaned over the murderer, resting the blade directly over the treacherous heart. Lips pealed back, the native leaned forward to plunge the blade home.

"God damn it!" he shouted. Ash, the ashes of everyone he'd known here, fell around them, and he couldn't do it. He couldn't kill the boy who looked so childlike in his unconsciousness.

The one who'd spared him again. Putting the knife away, he glanced around and couldn't keep the surprise off his face when he spotted his travel pack. A quick look through the back showed everything he would need to travel.  _Why? Why me, and not them?_

Bending over, he slid his arms under the limp weight and hefted the child-like killer into his arms.

* * *

Weapon IX woke to the familiar comfort of the cave. Deerskin had been draped over him, and though the fire had gone out at some point, the cave held enough warmth to keep him from freezing. Glancing around, he found no sign of Thomas, and wondered what possessed the Hunter to bring him here.

Dismissing the mystery, IX closed his eyes and spoke.

"Weapon IX reporting."

_Acknowledged, continue._

"The mission is complete. The settlement known as Second Chance was destroyed, and all citizens of the town neutralized," he stated.  _The village banished Thomas before the kill order was, he was no longer a citizen_. He thought, rationalizing his reasons for not executing the man, or reporting his existence to his superiors.

_Roger that, a transport will arrive at your position in oh-eight-hundred. Out._

Closing his eyes, IX let the darkness claim him for a few more hours.


	12. Return to Civilization

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Readers! I just wanted to let you know that we're done with the books. Now, we're moving on to the movie X-Men Origins: Wolverine. This is going to be wildly AU. IM me if you have any questions.

"People have forgotten this truth," the fox said. "But you mustn't forget it. You become responsible forever for what you've tamed." –The Fox, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry,  _The Little Prince_

* * *

The rhythmic clank of chains was punctuated by low snarls heard even under the deep thrum of the chopper blades. Every time the beast strained against the bindings, the chains would hiss and groan against the bolts that held them, and Charles Drum would give a minute twitch. Even though Weapon X was secure, he couldn't halt the natural reaction to reach for a weapon with the Weapon's every shuffling movement. Even worse, those inhuman eyes watched them all the way a caged tiger watched the toddlers who came to stare at it in the Zoo.

Hungry, and without remorse. Unlike those witless children, Drum knew exactly what moved through its predatory gaze, and what the creature would do if it wasn't bound and held behind bars. Like the big cats held captive for the public's amusement, there was a frightening majesty to the dead Professor's creation. Something about the man turned Weapon set the beast apart from humanity, elevating it to a different plane of existence.

Another clank, and another twitch. This time, the motion was accompanied by a rough laugh. "Oh relax Charles, you trussed Weapon X up tighter than a virgin's thighs on her first date," Le Quont said. His tone was laced with pain, but the bandages kept the blood loss at bay, and the dopy grin showed the pain meds were kicking in just fine.

"Yeah, yeah, better safe than sorry. If it gets out now we're all fucked. Those claws would split this flying tin can open so fast we'd all be headed for the ground before we could bend over and kiss our asses goodbye," Drum huffed, his eyes flitting back to the bound Weapon. A shudder raked sharp claws through his gut when his gaze was caught by feral whisky eyes, and the beast's lips pealed back in a snarl that would make a mountain lion turn tail and run. Even caged, there was no containing the sense of overwhelming danger.  _Of all who'd gone up against the behemoth, we few were the ones to walk away victorious._  Pride welled in his chest, and he returned the snarl with a feral grin of his own, making X lunge against his bonds before falling back, unable to break free.

Contemplative green eyes studied the kneeling creature that took the form of a man. Perhaps it was woman's intuition, but something about the mission felt off to Sarah.

_It was too easy._ Settling back in her seat, Blake didn't share this observation with her fellow teammates. She doubted Le Quont would agree with her assessment of the situation, but looking back at the fight she couldn't help but think things had gone too well.

* * *

Bone deep weariness fought a losing battle against IX's ingrained training. At precisely ten minutes to oh-eight-hundred, his eyes cracked open. Sitting up, the short male assessed his physical status, and found it lacking. It felt like his bones had been drained of marrow, and if he moved carelessly, they would crumble. Taking a shallow breath, IX forced his body into motion. He rejected the weakness in favor of the mission even though his magic cried out for rest. The fire consumed so much of his power that he could not feel the quiet strength that usually whispered in the back of his mind. Now, it felt as cold and hollow as his bones.

_Is it depleted, or was it destroyed in the effort?_ The Weapon wondered, acknowledging the fact that he would be of less value to his wielder without the power. If he damaged himself irrevocably on this mission, it would be his wielder's right to see him terminated for the failure.

A broken weapon had no value.

Walking slowly to control the tremors trying to wrack his body, IX stepped out of the cave that had housed him and X, into the quiet morning light. His head throbbed in time with his heart, and the unusual desire to turn away from his duty and crawl back into the bed of skins plucked at his mind like a small golden spider.

The thought was crushed underfoot with supreme indifference, ignored as unworthy and dismissed from existence; banished like all the other thoughts that had plagued him during this excursion. None of those treacherous musings mattered, and now they could be rejected in favor of Duty.

Turning his back on the cave and all it represented, Weapon IX followed the familiar chop of a Blackhawk's rotor blades as they carved a path towards his current position. He came to a halt when he reached a plateau large enough for the helicopter to land. Wind crashed around him, and IX slitted his eyes against the sharp sting of old snow kicked up by the torrent.  _I will not miss the cold, or the weakness it carries,_  IX thought, ignoring the memory of warmth he'd found when cradled in X's arms.

* * *

"Sir, the rogue agent and the escaped mutant have been captured. Should I give the order to terminate?" the mechanical Voice drew the Director from his turbulent thoughts. Weapon IX and X had performed flawlessly, but they were not the only programs he had going, and the latest drama occurred when most of his attention was focused on field testing the new Weapons.

The rogue was of no importance. Her gift was useful, but hardly vital to the team. She failed at her most crucial task, and that failure had set back the Weapon X project by years. Still, the female had secured a number of favorable votes during cocktail parties with the right shareholders and key government officials. No, by herself, the agent was of little importance. However, her attempt to leave his service before he was finished using her spoke of a graver issue.

It was a matter of respect. If someone as weak as her thought she could not only walk away, but steal from him? Well, control had to be maintained. Especially with such a dangerous team. His withered lips pulled down in an agitated frown, and he brought up more files to study. The team couldn't be disbanded, their work was critical for the future. There had to be a way to keep control without disrupting the team.

"Might I offer a suggestion, sir?" the Voice asked.

"What is it?"

"The political atmosphere surrounding mutation will continue escalating. That should be your primary focus for the near future. Weapons IX and X are extraordinary creations, but they need time to settle and become seasoned before they are of any real use. Perhaps they could be integrated into the team as both support and persuasion?"

Stroking his chin, the Director's frown smoothed into a sly smirk. "That will provide the Major with the perfect reinforcement to keep the rest of the team in line, and give us a chance to fully test IX's loyalty. By integrating them into the team, they will form bonds of brotherhood, yet they will also be the noose around the other members necks should they falter. Yes, a true test to see how effective the programing is," the Director said, running his fingers through his snowy hair before he sank back into the welcoming curve of his custom built chair.

"Inform Major Stryker that his presence is required."

"Yes, sir. The START team has returned, and Weapon X will be delivered promptly. Marcel Le Quont was sent to the sick bay and is undergoing surgery to repair the damage. Diagnosis is favorable, and he will make a full recovery."

"Excellent, send them in when they arrive. Weapon IX is also in route and should arrive in time for the briefing."

The Director relaxed in the quiet of his office and contemplated the future. There was a storm coming, and he knew his latest Weapons would play an integral part in who rose as the victors, and who became extinct.  _Let the storm break; we will carve a new kingdom out of the rubble that remains._

* * *

"Commander, sir, you really should let me take a look at that arm," the nurse's breathy voice grated on Trent's nerves. He despised that doe-eyed look women gave him, and the endless prattle that fell from their pouty lips when they tried to impress him.

"I already told you,"  _you foolish little girl_ , "it was a simple dislocation that was put to rights before we landed. Tend to Le Quont," he said, his gaze flinty as he abandoned his second-in-command to the tender care of the medical staff. Marcel might have been a ladies man, but he loathed hospitals with every fiber of his being. If the nurse hadn't been such an annoying little bint, he might have pitied her.

Stepping into the hall, he nodded to the remaining three members of his team. The wheeled cage stood in the center of the loose ring they formed, and Trent approved of the high-alert stance of his team. The mission wasn't complete until the package was delivered, and though the likelihood of it escaping now was minimal, they had to remain open to all possibilities.

"All right. We've been given the go ahead to proceed to the Director's office," he said, locking eyes with each of them. No words were spoken, but his message was clear. They were almost in the green, and while he wasn't a man of praise, they had done a damn fine job on their first excursion.

Shifting forward, Trent took the right forward corner of the cage and ignored the feral snarl that rumbled through X's parted lips at his approach. Willi von Trakker took the left forward corner. Drum and Blake took the back corners respectively. With a grunt, they got the cage rolling. It was amazing how much the Weapon weighed.

Weapon X watched them all with restless, aggressive eyes. His breath was a low rasp in his throat from the tightness of the collar, and his chest and back were painted with rivulets of crimson where the metal bit into the back of his neck from straining against the bonds. The impotent  _shink_  of his claws made von Trakker jump, jarring the cage and further agitating the weapon. Roaring in fury, X flung himself with wild abandon against the chains so hard that the whole cage rocked under the onslaught.

"Shit," Blake hissed before she jammed a cattle prod between the bars, slamming it into X's side. The roar was cut off by the electricity tearing a violent path through him, forcing his body to spasm against the chains holding him down. She kept the current flowing, and the stench of burning skin wafted down the hall.

"That's enough," Commander Trent barked, not out of sympathy, but from the need to arrive promptly. With a small huff, she pulled the prod back. Weapon X settled back into the full kneeling position. Blake swallowed, her throat suddenly dry when the burned skin smoothed over before her eyes. "Let's get this delivered and turn in our report." Trent's voice jerked her out of the paralysis, and as one the team moved.

Weapon X shifted when the cage began rolling again, but didn't act out further. Before long, they entered a richly decorated office. The Director leveled each of them with a probing ice blue stare before his gaze narrowed on the bound figure in the cage. Satisfaction lit his wrinkled features and took a decade or two off his rugged face.

"I see you were able to successfully capture the Weapon where other teams failed. Congratulations Commander. Give your report of the capture, and the operational status of the Weapon."

Drum shifted restlessly from foot to foot. His gaze kept darting from the bound creature, to the Director, and back to his Commander. Adrenaline still coursed through him like a drug, and he wished the Weapon had put up a better fight. Again his eyes lit on the Director. The man was old, bent with age, but there was a shrewd power in his stony features that gave the youth pause. He might have been the youngest member of the team, but that didn't make him a total idiot. No, he could recognize power when he saw it, and he'd spent enough time in the armed forces to know that there were many different breeds of power. This man might not be able to kill him with his bare hands, but Drum didn't doubt that if the Director wanted them dead, they'd be scratching their nuts in hell before night fell. Power came in many forms, and just one look told him the elderly man wielded more power than Drum would ever possess.

"And then Drum and Blake were able to chain the Weapon before getting it loaded in the cage," Trent finished, leaving no detail out, not even glossing over his less than perfect performance.  _I got too close, and I'm bloody lucky Weapon X was disorientated enough to catch the wing, and not gut me._

The Director nodded gravely when the report was finished. "Mistakes happen son, and if you manage to survive them, you learn from them. Now that your feet are wet, expect business for the team to pick up. For a first run, your team performed well. The polish will come in time," the old man said in a grandfatherly tone that was at once reassuring yet held the lick of steel that promised a harsher reaction should those mistakes be repeated.

"Sir, yes, sir!" Commander Trent said before offering a crisp salute, and the rest of the team followed suit.

"You may go," the Director said, dismissing the team and silently gloating over the newfound confidence his mock-mission had instilled in them. Before this mission, they were celebrity heroes, but they'd lacked the grit needed to survive the trials ahead. One mission hadn't been enough to wear the shiny off of them, but it was a start, and they had survived to fight in future battles. Time and experience would finish tempering them into a functional unit, but this mission was the final strike of the smith's hammer. Now they were ready to be tested in the forge of true confrontations.

After giving a final salute, the team strutted out of the office with their heads held high. The Director's attention turned to the cage. Inhuman eyes bored into him, but they also held a passivity that had not been directed at the team members. A docileness one might recognize in the eyes of a tiger when its handler entered the cage. It was no less a wild beast, but it had been trained to obedience and recognized the human's authority. However, the Director was not a fool, and didn't attempt to release Weapon X from its captivity. He trusted the programming up to a point, but not with his life.

The Director had studied every video feed of the Weapons training, and he realized the Professor took his words to heart. Weapon IX was trained as X's primary handler, and the Weapon responded best to the smaller male's commands. It didn't bother him that X's main loyalty would always be to IX because the Director knew that Weapon IX's loyalty belonged exclusively to him.

He owned Weapon IX, body, mind and soul. Through IX, the Director also owned X.

* * *

Samson fought the urge to look behind him again to make sure the boy was still following. The kid moved without making a sound, and glided after him like the spirit of a dead thing. He'd drawn the short straw out of the flight crew and had the dubious pleasure of escorting the strange youth to the Director's office. Earlier that day, they'd been ordered out into the god forsaken wilderness to pick him up, and he hadn't said a word to them the entire flight.

No one asked him a damned thing either, not after meeting those dead green eyes. The large man suppressed a shudder even though the kid didn't even reach his shoulders. He'd done his turn in Afghanistan, and he'd seen week old corpses whose eyes held more life. Samson didn't know who the kid was, and he didn't want to know. There was something about the liquid way the boy moved that made questions wither on his lips like fruit on a drought choked vine.

No, he didn't know how or why, but the kid was some kind of government spook, and the less one knew about those types, the safer they were.

A sigh of relief whispered past Samson's lips when he reached the Director's thick oak door. He rapped three times, and again refused to look behind him.  _Is he still there? Was he ever there? Don't be redic-_

"Enter."

Taking a fortifying breath, Samson opened the door and stood aside, letting the small shape pass him. "If that's all you need, sir, I need to get back to the helicopter."

The Director's eyes glinted with amusement at the airman before he waved the pilot off. "That is all for now."

Weapon IX shoved the exhaustion back and stood straighter when he heard the sound of his Wielder's voice. Ignoring the guide, he stepped into the room and stood at attention before the elderly male. His bottle green eyes scanned the room the instant he'd entered, marking the exits and cataloging threats before he rested his full attention on the Director. IX hadn't given X more than the briefest glance, dismissing the bound male as harmless for the moment.

A fire crackled merrily in the fireplace, and reminded him of the multiple nights spent sleeping before open flames. IX's face didn't alter, instead the memories were buried in the same indifferent manner that he had buried the bone deep weariness. Both were unimportant.

His attention did not waiver when a low growl rumbled through the room like captive thunder. IX could feel the burning gaze on his back, but he ignored it.

Ignoring the exhaustion was becoming more difficult, and Weapon IX swayed before spreading his feet a little farther to brace his uncertain weight.

The Director studied the young man before him, marking the deep black circles that hung under his brilliant empty eyes, and the way the Weapon could hardly remain standing. "What is your status?" he demanded.

A voice that could rival his IA Voice for lack of inflection spoke. "Critical sir. I was injured during Operation Obsolete. The wound healed, but between the injury and controlling the fire to finish the mission, my power was depleted to the point that I can no longer feel it."

Before the Director could react to the declaration, IX moved. The old man's heart gave a sharp lurch when the Weapon unsheathed a five inch long dagger. Turning the blade, he offered it to the man hilt first. "Without my power, I am of little use to you Wielder. It is your right to take my life in payment of my carelessness."

A roar, full of pain and fury, tore through the room. Weapon X made the cage rock as he thrashed violently against the chains in a desperate attempt to reach his mate.

The Director reached out, and accepted the blade.

Without looking away from his Wielder, IX spoke, "be silent." The two words were not shouted, but they cut through the Weapon X, causing the roar to die back to a whine. His large body trembled with the need to defend, but he could not break free, and even if he could, his mate would not tolerate his interference. X sank his teeth deeply into his bottom lip to stifle the low sounds of distress that clawed his throat. More blood pattered over the floor of his cage, small splashes of crimson life that would not be missed.

IX did not hesitate. He walked around the massive desk and stood before the Director. Closing his eyes, IX tilted his head back to expose the slender length of his neck for the killing blow. Every line of his body was relaxed, accepting his fate without question.

An aged finger whispered over the edge of the blade, testing its sharpness. The Director nodded when a bead of red welled from cut caused by the soft touch. Shifting forward, he rested the edge of the knife against the willing throat. Again, the chains groaned under the strain of containing Weapon X. The Director's eyes flitted past IX's shoulder, and locked on flaming brown.

His death was held in those unholy eyes. They contained a smoldering rage that would paint the walls in his blood if the Weapon was ever unleashed. The Director returned his attention to IX. It would take no effort at all to slide the blade through unresisting flesh, ending the Weapon's existence. He shifted the dagger forward, and watched a slim crimson line drip down IX's porcelain skin.

* * *

Kitty didn't care that all the other students teased her about her late night habit of drinking milk. It wasn't like she heated up and lapped it from a saucer or anything, she just liked a cup of milk and some Oreos when she woke up was all.

Grumbling under her breath, Kitty phased through the hall wall and ended up in the kitchen instead of walking the long way around. She blinked, surprise flitting over her heart shaped face when she found the lights already on. Muffled sobs came from under the table, and Kitty sprang into action. Dropping to her purple pajama clad knees, she scooted under the table. Her brown hair was pulled up in a sloppy pony tail, and an escaped strand brushed her nose, making her sneeze.

Malcom's small red head jerked up at the sound, and Kitty's heart lurched at the tormented look in his watery brown eyes. Red blotches covered his face from crying, and the seven-year-old hid his face again when he recognized her. Unlike most mutants, his power did not appear at puberty. He could always see the pretty shifting colors, but it wasn't until he was five that the dreams started. Frustrated and afraid, his parents had turned to Xavier, hoping that he would be able to help their son before he was driven mad by the uncontrolled power that hammered his young psyche whenever he slept.

"Oh Malcom, you're alright. Come here," she soothed, and gathered the little boy into her arms. She rocked him gently, not attempting to remove him from the imagined sanctuary found under the table. "Didn't you take your medicine?" she asked when his sobs died off to watery hiccups.

"I did!" he cried, not wanting to get into trouble.

"Shhh, it's alright." Kitty's fingers rubbed soothing circles over his small back. Malcom had become something of a mascot to everyone, and they all loved the little boy to pieces. He snuggled deeper into her arms, basking in her warm aura. He always liked Kitty's swirling aqua, it reminded him of a gentle ocean, quiet and rocking. It wasn't as powerful or as frightening as some of the other people here. "Want to talk about it?"

A tremble vibrated through the boy. His breath hitched in his chest, but he forced himself to speak. Fear coiled in his chest, and he just wanted to forget, but he knew the adults needed know about the terrible power. "It was real scary, fire, but not like John's fire. His is just power ya know? Not this. It was animals, but they were huge and mean, like a bear with rables," a frightened whimper escaped him, and he pressed his face against her shoulder, trying to hide from the horrible dream.

"Kitty, the fire was  _alive_ , and then…then it was killed!" a fresh bout of sobs racked the child, and Kitty held him close. His words sent shards of ice through her veins. She knew how powerful John's fire could be, and it was often fuelled by his rage.

When Malcom's crying eased, Kitty gently tugged him out from under the table. "Come on buddy, we need to tell the Professor. He'll know what to do." Scrubbing the tears from his face with the back of one small hand, Malcom nodded and gave Kitty a watery smile. He should have gone to her in the first place, but he didn't want to bother anyone, and was too scared to stay in his room. The kitchen was always his favorite place. It was full of warmth and the memories of helping his mom make cookies, and French toast. Sorrow mingled with his fear when he thought about his mom, he missed her so much, and he wished she was there to hold him and tell him the dreams weren't real.

But they were, and he knew a mutant with scary power was out there somewhere. The pure evil of that power seemed to ooze under his skin like black tar, and it made him sick to his stomach. He'd never felt anything like that before. Not even Marie, whose color was as black as a starless night, felt evil. Hers was like a hole, one that pulled everything in, but that didn't make it evil. Not like the fire.

"One moment," the sleep rough voice replied after Kitty knocked on a heavy maple door. Malcom's hand clung to hers, and he pressed himself against her side. He tucked the thumb of his left hand into his palm to keep from bringing it up to his lips. Before he could give in to the urge, the door opened, and Professor Xavier ushered them into the small sitting room that branched off from the main bedroom.

Kitty tugged him down onto one of the puffy arm chairs, large enough to fit both children easily. He gave the Professor a trembling smile, and watched the shift of silver power surrounding the man in fluffy sheep-like clouds. Small wafts of silver flowed around the room like mist, but Malcom was used to it. He couldn't feel the power brush over his thoughts, but he could see the little tendrils reaching from the clouds to touch everything.

"Malcom, may I take a deeper look?" Xavier asked, keeping his tone soft. The little boy's mutation was a Delta level, and not one the child controlled. The mutation didn't require control, it added a second layer of color to the boy's world, but didn't harm him. Until he went to sleep, that was. Then, the power grew, and separated from his body. It was pulled towards the greatest concentration of power, showing the child the power while he slept. Unfortunately, such power was as often dark as it was light, and the boy had seen horrors no child should be exposed to. Malcom was too young to learn to control his subconscious, so he'd decided to put him on medication to block the dreams.

The power that struck during the night had been so strong, it broke through the drug haze and sucked Malcom in. "Yeah," the boy whispered, his eyes wide when one of the silver clouds broke away from the main mass and settled over his head.

Xavier slid into Malcom's mind with gentle ease. He focused on the memory of the dream and had to bite back a startled exclamation. Now he understood why the boy was so upset. He watched the malevolent power devour a small village and almost gaged at the thick oily feel of it. The howling fury of the firestorm, thick with roving beasts that consumed everything in their path, crashed against an unseen barrier. He could feel the power, almost sentient and out of control, keen in mad rage. Then something pushed the hungry flames back, compressed them, before snuffing them out with a roar of equal power.

The second power didn't hold the taint of the first, but he got the sense that both came from the same source.  _Impossible._ No, not impossible, Rogue could take other mutants power, giving her powers not her own for a time. Perhaps the mutant responsible for this destruction was of a similar type. He watched the memory one more time before he broke away from Malcom's mind.

"Thank you, Malcom. We will look into the matter and see what can be found. Kitty? Can you take Malcom back to bed?" he asked, his thoughts distant while he made plans. He would send the others to the site after morning came, it would be easier to explore the area in daylight. Perhaps, but Xavier knew that the real reason he didn't send them now was the worry that the mutant was still in the area. The X-Men were powerful, but this mutant wasn't one they should attempt to engage before they had more information.

* * *

This time, Weapon X's howls of rage went unanswered. IX did not flinch away from the caress of cold steal, even when it bit into his flesh. His body remained at ease, not tensing to fight or retreat. Pure acceptance that his fate was now, and always would be, in the hands of his Wielder was reflected in his empty features. The Director pulled the knife back and returned to his seat behind the desk. IX let his head shift forward into a more natural position before his tired eyes slid open.

"You will spend the next week recovering," the Director's voice was brisk, and he did not return the blade. Instead he set it on his desk, a physical reminder of the power he controlled. "We will re-evaluate your usefulness then." Reaching into the top drawer, he pulled out a small key. "Release Weapon X. He is your responsibility, keep him leashed. After you're recovered, we will reconvene to discuss where the two of you will be placed."

Reaching out, IX accepted the key. Every step towards the cage felt like a mile, but IX did not falter. He pushed himself to the brink to complete the mission. Once he reached the door of the cage, the short male leaned against the bars to keep himself upright before sliding the key home. The click of tumblers releasing sounded loud in the quiet office, and Weapon X's muscles trembled in anticipation. Jerking open the door, IX stumbled into the cage and fell onto the bound weapon.

X grunted at the slight weight that jarred his stiff limbs. Concern slithered along the base of his spine and grew when his mate didn't move. This close, he could feel the small tremors that wracked his mate's body, and the unnatural worry grew. His animalistic thoughts were unaccustomed to such human emotions, and the other that had whispered during their time in the forest was silent, not offering help or advice for how to proceed.

The chain latched to his collar snapped tight when X tried to turn his head to nuzzle his mate's side, and he gave a low crooning growl. Small hands, so adept at the art of killing, gave his side a near gentle stroke before IX pushed himself up again. Sinking to his knees, IX began the tedious task of unlocking the mountain of chain that held Weapon X. The larger male pressed his bulk closer to the ground, giving IX as much slack as the tight chains allowed to ease his task.

With a loud  _thunk_ , the titanium collar fell to the floor of the cage. Slender fingertips probed the blood stained skin, sending a storm of shivers over X's skin. Satisfied, the hands moved to the complex shackles that kept X's arms bound behind him. The locks were released one after the other, and X had to stifle a howl of agony when they were finally free. Muscle and bone protested violently against the freedom after having been bound so tightly for so long.

Again IX's hands were there, this time strong fingers dug into the muscles with rough grace, forcing circulation back into the deadened limbs. X whimpered against the harsh treatment, but didn't resist his mate's attentions. Another whine escaped his throat when IX nudged him into a sitting position so he could reach the chains wrapped around his legs.

After fifteen minutes of exhausted pushing and prodding, IX was able to unhook the last chains. Both men were panting, one from fatigue, the other from pain. Leaving X huddled at the bottom of the cage to recover, IX gripped the bars with one shaky hand and pulled himself to his feet. Through strength of will alone, IX stepped out of the cage and stood without gripping the bars for support. His tired eyes sought the Director, waiting for another command, even though it was clear he had reached the limit of his endurance.

The Director studied his masterpiece, and couldn't stop the dark smile that curled his lips. Weapon IX was magnificent, and even half dead, he would continue to push himself beyond all rational measure to please his Wielder. The large bulk of Weapon X shifted into a crouch, and the old man settled back in his chair to watch the show.

It was a testament to Weapon IX's compromised state that he did not hear the attack before it came.

"Ooph." The air exploded out of IX's narrow chest when the much larger man pounced on him. Together, they crashed to the ground in a tangle of limbs. With a final burst of strength, IX twisted under X so that when they hit the ground he was on his back facing the larger male. "Get…off…" he wheezed, his hand going for a dagger.

Sharp teeth cut a fierce line into the flesh of IX's shoulder. Hot blood rushed into X's mouth, and the worry that had been growing since he'd seen his mate spiked. The once rich liquid tasted dull, flat without the captive lightning that made it so addictive. Probing the wound with his tongue, he finally tasted a small spark of that once potent power like the flick of static electricity in his mouth.

Gently, he bathed the deep mark. It was only after the flow had slowed to a trickle that X realize that he wasn't feeling the sharp bite of IX's annoyance. Glancing up, he saw IX's hand wrapped limply around the hilt of the knife he'd managed to unsheathe, but hadn't had the strength to use. His mate's face was slack with unconsciousness, and only the slow rise and fall of the small chest kept the panic at bay. Leaning forward, X nuzzled the narrow column of IX's pale throat. His tongue swiped over the small cut left by the Director as he drank in IX's exhaustion tainted scent.

Exhaustion wasn't the only thing that marred the familiar scent. Blood, heavy and old, clung to IX's skin. Not the blood of enemies, but IX's blood. Snarling, X tore open the smaller male's shirt, exposing his chest. Soft blood streaked skin met his searching eyes, and near IX's heart, a quarter sized divot of shiny pink skin stood in silent testimony. X knew the mark would fade with time, but he couldn't stop staring at it.

Before the burning that had increased his healing factor, X had sported a number of similar marks that took hours to fully heal. Bullet wounds. A low wounded sound thrummed in X's throat, and he leaned forward to lay his head against his mate's chest, needing to hear the stead thump of his heart.  _Too close, shouldn't have survived_ , the voice, brought near the surface by X's distress, whispered through his mind.

Snarling, Weapon X stood and gathered IX into his large arms. IX looked even smaller when framed by the large man's bulk, and the Director suppressed a smirk. Yes, IX was perfectly designed to go dismissed as a threat, especially when paired with Weapon X. A target's eyes were naturally drawn to the fierce aura of animalistic potential that X gave off, and ignoring the small serpent in the grass at his feet. While they focused on X; the death blow would come from IX.

Pressing a button on his desk, the Director said, "Jennings, come in." The door to the office opened, and X's shoulders tensed, preparing to attack if needed. A middle aged man with trim black hair shading towards grey at the temples stepped into the room.

"Sir," he said, and gave a salute. His somber brown eyes flicked to the agitated weapon before settling on the Director.

"Escort Weapon IX and X to holding cell eleven," the Director locked eyes with X. "You will both remain there for the week. Do not attempt to leave, is that understood?" he said, watching the mutant's eyes. He saw the leash of obedience tighten around X's mind. For IX, the large male could throw off the leash, but only for IX. With a low growl, X's eyes dropped in submission when the mental conditioning took effect.

"Inform the guards to repeat the order to IX when it wakes."

"Yes sir," Jennings said, and with another salute, he turned and ushered the Weapons out of the office.

With a sigh, the Director said, "Inform Major Stryker that our meeting has been postponed."

"Yes sir," the Voice responded.

* * *

The Blackbird settled in a clearing just west of the burned out circle they had been sent to investigate. Exiting the jet, Storm's nose wrinkled at the burnt stink that lingered over the area. The urge to call up a strong wind to blow the offensive odor away tested her control, but she managed to override it. They had a job to do, and couldn't risk losing valuable evidence to her wind.

"Do you really think a mutant did this?" Cyclops asked, his visored eyes trailed over the destruction in disbelief. They stood at the edge of the circle. It looked like a perfect line had been drawn, on one side was ice and snow, on the other black and grey destruction.

"Yes, Malcom's visions are drawn to active mutant power, not mundane power given off by weapons," was her husky reply. Fear stroked a lazy finger over her dark skinned neck, raising the hairs along her spine. "Whoever did this must be an omega, why didn't the Professor see this coming?" A mutant capable of this level of destruction should have been identified when they entered puberty and their power began to manifest.

Shaking his head, Cyclops began walking along the edge of the circle. The thought of stepping into the ash field disturbed him, and he wanted to put it off as long as possible. "I don't know. Something isn't right here, and we need to figure out what before it comes to bite us in the ass."

Storm was about to scold him for his foul language, but stopped when a spot of brown caught her eye. Kneeling at the edge of the circle, she leaned down. The snow was pressed down along the edge in a partial foot print, but that wasn't what had caught her eye, no, it was the small circle of brown beside the print. Reaching into her bag, Storm took out a small test tube and scooped up the dirty snow. It could have been mud, but she didn't think so.

They continued walking the circle, and found several more partial prints, never one complete enough to judge its size, but enough to know that whoever had done this, had walked around the town before the fire began. Storm also found more of the drops that she was now certain were blood.

"But whose blood is it?" She wondered out loud.

"What?"

"Is this the blood of the mutant, or someone else?"

Cyclops swallowed hard at the implication. Though rare, they had seen a few mutations that could drain power from another person, and that power was often harnessed in the blood. The victims of such power draining rarely survived. "That would explain the level of control," he replied. With the power filtered through a secondary source, the mutant would be able to wield it without having to filter it through their own body.

"Has there ever been an omega level drainer before?" he asked.

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Storm, look over here," excitement caused Cyclops's voice to rise when he spotted whole prints a foot or two away from the circle. "This must be where the mutant began the circle." Kneeling, he studied the prints. Strom settled next to him, and rummaged through her bag to get a ruler and camera. Setting the ruler next to the clearest print, she took photographed it.

"The mutant is female, based off the size. There's no way they could belong to an adolescent. Not with that level of control," Cyclops deduced as he studied the small prints. Storm gave a grim nod of agreement.

More blood stained the snow around the prints, heavier here. "This was the start of the circle. The mutant laid the circle first before unleashing the fire." Standing, she began walking again before coming to the next discovery.

"She wasn't alone." Storm was careful not to disturb the churned up snow. It looked like their mutant had fallen at some point. Footprints, larger than the ones they'd found earlier, lead to this point, and left again. The larger prints were cataloged, and they attempted to follow the trail only to lose it in the trees.

"Damn," this time, Storm didn't attempt to lecture. She was beginning to feel just as aggravated. There were so many questions, and no answers to be found. At least, not here. Perhaps Beast would be able to shed light on their findings once they got back to the lab. "Come on, let's start collecting the ash samples," Cyclops said in disgust. His feet were starting to go numb, and he wanted to leave this cursed place.

Trudging back to the circle, the pair set up a grid using stakes and twine so that they would be able to identify which area each sample of ash was taken from. It took over an hour to set up the grid, and another two to get four samples from each square.

The thoroughness of the burn scared Storm. After brushing the soft flaky ash away from the first grid square, she found the ground had been melted into broken glass. How much power was needed to reduce an entire town into drifts of soft ash? Sometimes, the glass was swirled with glinting metallic, marking where metal had been melted into puddles of super-heated liquid.

Once the ash was collected, both X-Men were frozen through. Their panting breaths formed plums of mist and it took an effort of will to close their cold hands on the sample cases and return to the jet.

* * *

The sharp stab of hunger penetrated the thick layers of cotton between consciousness and unconsciousness. IX tried to ignore the sensation, not wanting to wake, but it would not be denied. Groaning, he cracked his eyes open and huffed when his vision was full of X's disgruntled face less than an inch from his own.

"Get off," IX croaked, mildly surprised at the raspy tone. His throat felt drier than a desert in the peak of summer, and other bodily complaints made themselves known.  _How long have I slept?_ He wondered, and pushed ineffectively at the broad chest that hovered above his. It was times like this that made the smaller weapon wish the larger could speak. "Get off," he repeated, this time the words were punctuated by the sharp edge of a throwing knife.

X's bulk lifted high enough to avoid the cut, but the large man continued to hover like a brooding hen with only one chick to mother. Mild irritation flared in IX's green eyes before he ducked around X's arm and rolled off the narrow bed. He landed in a crouch on the cement floor and assessed his strength. His body still felt weighed down by weariness, but it no longer felt on the verge of collapse. Closing his eyes, he felt for the power, and was almost relieved when it sluggishly responded to his call. Like his body, it still felt drained to the dredges, but now he could feel it, and knew it would replenish itself.

Standing, IX swayed with dizziness. X reached out to steady him, but jerked his hand back when silver lashed out to cut the offending limb. He gave a pouting growl, and backed up to give his annoyed mate room. Ignoring X, IX padded silently over to the toilet and relieved himself without thought to the lack of privacy. He was so focused on remaining upright without aid that he didn't notice X's hungry eyes on him. Only after he tucked himself away did IX realize he was shirtless again. At least this time there wasn't a gaping wound in his chest, but he knew why was shirtless that time. What happened to his shirt this time?

Dismissing the question as unimportant to his current situation, IX turned his attention to the heavy steel door. IX continued ignoring X who followed at his heels like a puppy with separation anxiety. He closed his eyes and placed his palm on the door. Reaching for his power, IX whispered, "Open." With the slowness of molasses, the power responded and nudged the lock.

The door opened with a soft hiss, and revealed the startled youthful face of the guard who'd been assigned to watch them. IX remained on his side of the threshold and studied the youth. His threat level was minimal, and IX knew he could kill the boy effortlessly. That dark knowledge flashed in his poison green eyes, and the boy backed up with a frightened gasp. Tilting his head slightly, he studied the reaction and found the young guard wanting. However, since he had not been given the order to kill, he slid the small blade back into its sheath.

"What are my orders?"

The guard gulped at the emotionless demand. "Uh…oh, right. J-J-Jennings said t-that you and he are to say here until the D-Director asks for you," the young man stuttered, terrified that the order would be ignored.

"Acknowledged. How long have I been unconscious?"

Blinking at the unexpected acceptance of the order, the guard had to look at his watch and had to think about it for a minute. "Twenty-one, no, twenty-three hours sir," the youth squeaked, forgetting that the man he was talking to was in a holding cell and not a senior officer.

"I require sustenance and fresh water. Go," IX stated before he reached out and touched the door again. It slid obediently shut, and the guard shivered when the lock reengaged of its own accord. Turning, he ran.


	13. Integration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is a small timeline that will help explain IX's age and break things down a little.
> 
> Age 6: Harry is taken from Privet Drive
> 
> 6-8: IX is crafted and trained at the Hive with X
> 
> 8-12: IX and X are part of Stryker's team (Note: there will be a time skip so don't panic)
> 
> 12-14: IX and X are with the X-men
> 
> 14 Start of the Sequel and moving to the Wizarding world
> 
> This will give you hints of what's coming without giving away any of the juicy details. I hope that this little guide helps provide a timeline of what events are taking place when. Now just a small note on IX's age. The above are the number of years he's been alive, but due to the accelerated growth and the reprogramming of his mind, IX is fully adult in every way. Think about the clones in Starwars, they were only around 10 years old, but no one would look at the clone army and say there's an army of pre-teen
> 
> If you have any questions, please feel free to review or PM me and I will do my best to explain.

"Most teams aren't teams at all but merely collections of individual relationships with the boss. Each individual vying with the others for power prestige and position." –Douglas McGregor

* * *

"Major, do come in," the Director invited the younger man into his office. Eyes the color of ice clashed with a brown that should have been warm but failed. "I've found a solution to your little disciplinary problem." He watched Stryker's body stiffen at the barb, but the Major wisely kept silent. It was a mark in the man's favor. He loathed subordinates who oozed excuses like puss from an open sore. A high definition screen slid smoothly down from the ceiling, and after keying in a command, images began scrolling across the former blankness. Blood splashed artistically over the arena, followed by video feed of the live testing conducted by the late Matron's team.

He watched the Major absorb the data and suppressed a smirk at the dark look the younger male gave him. "Stories of the Weapon X project have made the rounds Director. The program has a rather extensive history of malfunctioning." Stryker's disgruntled tone didn't faze the Director.

"Yes. The rumors have become quite prevalent. However, I can assure you that the Weapons are entirely under my control."

Stryker's eyes flashed at the deceptively innocent wording. The Director's lips crinkled into a predatory smirk while he watched the meaning sink in.  _Let's see what he makes of that, and if he takes the warning to heart._

"I…see. Who is the second individual?"

"IX. He is X's primary handler and will be your tool to control both X and the rest of the Team."

Doubt flashed over Stryker's features. "Is he effective?"

A dry chuckle rasped between the Director's lips at the question. "Indeed. If you don't believe me have him take care of your little traitor. Require the rest of the team to watch. I'm sure it will be quite educational."

"What about the sister? We haven't found a way to terminate her that won't result in the total destruction of her body."

The Director waved the question away. "Leave it to IX. Debrief him on her mutation and he'll develop the most effective solution."

"We need her body intact for further study."

"Of course. Simply inform IX of that stipulation, and he will comply." The Director replied, his winter gaze burned into Stryker's until the Major dropped his eyes in an unconscious gesture of submission. He knew the young man disliked the tightening of the leash that the Weapons represented, but he also knew Stryker understood the necessity. Had he not allowed the situation to reach the point where the Director needed to interfere, he would have been able to maintain his autonomy.

"Fine. If that's all, I need to get back to the team."

* * *

"Were you able to find anything Hank?" A fuzzy indigo head lifted from the microscope at the sound of Charles voice.

"These samples are rather fascinating. I've determined the temperatures required for this level of complete immolation, at minimum, would be 4,200 degrees Fahrenheit. In contrast, John's peak heat measurement is a mere 650, hardly hot enough to melt lead. What I have failed to conclude is how this mutant was able to contain such an intense inferno. The power level must be extraordinary." Hank rumbled, both delighted and appalled by the puzzle the strange mutant represented.

"Did you find anything else," Scott demanded. Even after three showers he still felt like the stench of smoke clung to his skin.

Even through the fur they saw Hank's look turn somber. "I was able to isolate trace amounts of human DNA. The samples were too degraded to do more than confirm their existence, but. Well, look for yourselves." Turning, he brought up a satellite image of the small village before the fire. Next he overlaid it with a map of clustered red dots. "The red markers indicate where traces of DNA were located."

"All of them?" Ororo's voice wavered when she realized that each of the clusters of red overlaid one of the houses.

"It would appear that some of the structures were uninhabited, but yes. It appears this was a thriving community before the mutant attacked," Hank confirmed.

Glaring at the clusters of red dots, Scott's skin began crawling. They had spent  _hours_  combing through the ashes, through the  _dead._  A harsh frown twisted his lips before he rounded on Charles. "How did this happen? You should have known about this monster before she ever reached this level of power!"

"Scott!"

"It's alright Hank. He has a point. An Omega level mutation should never have reached this level of control without my having felt her powers awaken. What Malcom witnessed was not a mutant coming into their power, but someone who's developed their skills to a frightful degree. Scott, Ororo, take Jean and search the surrounding area. That settlement was cut off from everything. I want to know where this mutant came from. The likelihood of her originating in that town is almost non-existent," Charles said, his eyes distant with guilt.  _I should have sensed her before now, where are you little fire starter?_

* * *

A white clock faced with black numbers, the style exclusive property of government facilities everywhere, ticked off the seconds with dry repetitiveness that seemed to draw each out to the length of a minute. "So, what do you think this is all about?" Wade's voice cut through the low mutter of the waiting team members like his favorite sword. The tall mercenary flung himself back into a chair with all the grace of a rebellious teen before he kicked his booted feet up onto the glass top table. Fred tossed a peanut up into the air and caught it in his mouth, totally ignoring his loud mouthed teammate.

Growling, Victor replied, "I don't know, maybe Stryker's found a way to shut you up and got us all together to share the good news." A single claw-like nail lengthened, and he began etching a caricature of the Major into the glass.

Zero smirked, not bothering to look up from the gun he was meticulously taking apart to clean. He doubted it was anything so innocent, not with the stunt Kayla tried to pull last week. No, they were probably going to get a mixed dose of fatherly disapproval and dire threat.  _What can he do, lock us up with the rest of the test subjects? If so, who would go hunting for him?_ Zero's thoughts were interrupted when the door to the conference room opened.

"Attention men!" Major Stryker's voice lashed into the room like a whip of flame. Those two words conveyed his temper even before he'd fully entered the room. Instead of standing up and saluting, Wade yawned, Chris jumped, causing the lights to flicker, Fred ate another peanut, Zero snapped the clip back into his gun, Wraith tipped his hat lower over his eyes and Victor added donkey ears to his sketch.

"They lack discipline," an inflectionless voice murmured, only to be answered by a low growl. Frowning, Wade stood up and glared at the opening of the door. He laughed when a boy stepped past the Major followed by someone who made Victor seem tame in the face of his sheer animal magnetism.

Every eye was drawn to the two who stood in the doorway. A boy, whose head barely reached the shoulders of the Major, stood beside a muscular man who wore a pair of ragged blue jeans and an equally indifferent black t-shirt. If it weren't for the inhuman grace of the man, he might have been a homeless man the Major picked up just to mess with them. The larger mutant's feet were bare, and something in his stance conveyed protectiveness of the smaller male and menace towards everyone else in the room. As unlikely as it was for them to dismiss the man, the team's collective gaze was unwaveringly drawn to the boy. His short black hair looked like it had only known fingers as a comb, and his jaded eyes froze each of them in turn as he regarded them. Unlike the other male, his outfit was more professional. Black pants, shined shoes, and a slate grey, long sleeved shirt that molded to his narrow frame. His pale skin was ghostly against the dark colors, and only his poisoned green eyes seemed to add a cold color to his face. Those emeralds should have glittered with life, but instead they felt like the dead jewels they resembled. Beautiful, but empty of empathy and emotion.

Zero's keen gaze trailed over the slender form, silently marking off the subtle lines of blade sheaths. Something in the boy's stance marked him as a gun wielder as well, and the sharp shooter didn't doubt the boy had at least one firearm on his person. While he couldn't see it from here, he was leaning towards a small-of-back holster. Zero disregarded the apparent youth of the boy in favor of his economy of movement. Intensive training had gone into the child, and he understood immediately just how dangerous the boy could be. In seconds, Zero's gun was back together. The stranger's eyes flashed from the weapon to his dark gaze, and he swallowed at the distant look that whispered death to his assassin heart. It was like being watched by a snake, those eyes unreadable, but so very fatal if handled without care.

Fred's ponderous gaze trailed from boy to man and back. He saw the protective glint in the grown male's eyes, and decided that avoidance would be the best policy. Of course, he would follow orders. That was a given, but Fred instinctively knew who could take a joke, and who would stab you in the eye for a few careless words. Munching another peanut, he couldn't help but glance at Wade. That one didn't have any notion of when to speak, and when to hold his tongue. It amazed the large man that Wade hadn't been killed off yet for his insolent, and endless, spouting of words at the most inopportune moments.

"What the hell? You want to add a little boy and his pet dog to the team?" Wade demanded, his sable eyes glittered with mirth. His laughing gaze raked over IX's small form and dismissed him. X snarled and started forward, but IX halted the advance with a light touch to his wrist.

"Down Fido," Wade muttered under his breath, his sharp edged smile laced with challenge. While Wade blathered on without thought, the rest of the team observed the duo. Zero's contemplative gaze lingered on the youth, and he understood where the power lay. The large one was dangerous in his own right, but it was the boy who held his leash.

Looking at the green-eyed mutant, Chris flinched. When their eyes met, it felt like he'd bit onto a piece of tinfoil. There was a slight narrowing of the boy's eyes that gave the technopath the sense that he felt the odd reaction too. It was unpleasant and made the flesh just beneath his skin itch with the need to leave the room. Something about the boy set his power on edge and it crackled in his mind like captive lightning, giving him a terrible headache.

IX stepped back until he was half behind X, giving him the appearance of a frightened child.

A frown pulled Wraith's full lips down at the unusual move. The boy looked young, but he moved like a feline, all well-oiled grace and deadly potential. It was odd that he would hide behind the larger male.  _Maybe he's trying to play us, use that baby-face of his to force our guard down._

Wade's smile flared into an all-out grin. "What, scared little boy?" Instead of replying, IX vanished soundlessly, only to reappear behind the mouthy mutant. A slender dagger kissed the pulse point at his throat. It had taken months for IX to learn he only needed his feet planted in shadows to walk them, and he'd found that X's shadow worked admirably for the task.

The rest of the team jerked in surprise at the sudden attack. Zero's guns were out and pointed, but to his disgust, the boy was small enough that his hand was all that showed from behind Wade. Wraith vanished, appearing behind the boy, but before he could fully materialize, IX's other hand came up holding a Firestar 9mm. The barrel rested just over Wraith's heart. He hadn't even turned to track the teleporter, and both knew he could pull the trigger faster than Wraith could vanish.

"Shit kid, we've already got a poof guy, so why don't you crawl back under whatever rock they found you, huh?" Wade joked, hissing when the blade nicked his skin. A fat drop of blood trickled down his skin, making him want to squirm at the ticklish sensation, but not quite daring.

"Poof guy? What do you mean poof guy?" Wraith whined.

"You know, now you're here, then POOF…gone."

"Team, the Director has kindly provided two new operatives to make up for our lost member. They're also going to ensure no future losses occur." Stryker's voice broke the foolish debate, drawing their attention back to the deadly youth between them.

Before they could react, IX vanished. He stepped gracefully back out from behind X, his green gaze sharper than the knife. "I am IX and this is X, it is our duty to provide support and ensure the continued success of this team."

"Nine?!" Wade barked. "What the hell do you mean you're nine? I mean, yeah you're short but don't your nuts at least have to drop before you can join the army?"

Cool jade eyes locked on him, and he couldn't help but gulp. There was something about the brat that made his sac shrivel. "My designation is IX, not my age," was the only response.

Wade blinked. "Wait, designation. So, like, your name?"

"Yes."

"Uh huh. Right. Well, guess you'll fit right in kiddo." Leaping over one of the chairs, Wade threw an arm around Zero's shoulders and got a gun barrel buried in his ribs for the effort. "Ooph!" Pulling away, Wade rubbed at the tender spot. "Any who, this here's Zero. If we get a few more numbers and letters, we can play Bingo!"

"Wade, shut up." Stryker hissed as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

Victor ignored Wade's antics, Stryker's agitation, and everyone else in the room. His full attention was locked on X. But Jimmy didn't even glance in his direction. Instead his brother's eyes remained on the small male at his side. It had been decades since he'd last laid eyes on Jimmy, and his claws lengthened in anger at the memory.

* * *

_Flash back – Vietnam_

After nearly three weeks of mind numbing boredom, their platoon was finally sent back into action. Instead of a battle to let off a little steam, they found another crappy little village with no sign of the bastards who constantly nipped at their heels only to turn and melt into the jungle when confronted. The rest of the team split off to interrogate the villagers when Victor saw the woman.  _I guess I'll do a little_ interrogation _of my own._ A few of the soldiers smirked when they saw him scoop the screaming woman off her feet and throw her over his shoulder. They didn't dare join in the fun, but Victor was a law unto himself. Only Jimmy could curb his baser instincts.

With a grunt, Victor tossed the girl onto the bed before he fell on her. Sharp yellowed claws hissed down the front of her shirt, tearing another scream from her throat when the cloth parted to reveal her quivering breasts. The piercing noise made Victor's sensitive ears ring. Baring his unusually sharp teeth an inch from her face; he wrapped his hand around her neck and squeezed. "Be good, just lay back and enjoy it," he grunted, his other hand reached down to unfasten his belt.

The screams cut off to frightened whimpers when the door crashed open. "What the hell are you doing?" Jimmy's fist locked onto the back of Victor's shirt, jerking him off the terrified girl. The pressure of traipsing through the jungle with nothing to kill on top of his thwarted lust broke the leash Victor usually held onto when dealing with his little brother.

Snarling, Victor lashed out and split Jimmy's face open to the bone. For an instant both brothers froze, then the wound started knitting together leaving behind a wash of blood. "I've had it with your shit Jimmy! You're such a fucking pussy. I'm done with it. We aren't the good guys' dumb ass, we're killers. We've always been killers and always will be. So lay off, and let me have a little fun."

Victor turned back to the cowering woman, Jimmy forgotten in favor of release. He almost didn't hear the quiet words, and later he wished he would have turned around. Maybe things would have been different if he had. "Fine. You know what? You're right. I'm done being your keeper." The door slammed, leaving him alone with the woman. Her look of betrayal was all the sweeter knowing Jimmy had put it there. For all his brother liked to pretend to be the hero, he still left the Princess to the Dragon's mercy.

"Finally, alone again." Victor grinned and pulled the trembling female back down onto the bed. With a low rumble of pleasure, he bent until his nose pressed against the curve of her throat. She shuddered when he drew in a deep breath, savoring her scent.  _So much better than American whores who paint their skin with perfume_ , he thought when he was able to taste the fields, sweat, and just  _her_ on her skin. Victor's tongue traced over her trembling pulse, and his body hardened further when she squeaked at the contact. "So sweet." Before he could bite down and mark her, the door slammed open again.

Huffing in irritation, Victor glared over his shoulder at the Senior Officer who'd interrupted. "Can't this wait ten minutes?" his playful smirk vanished when he was wrenched off the girl for the second time. While he might tolerate that kind of shit from Jimmy, no one else was allowed to disrespect him. Hot blood splashed over his face from the red ruin where the man's throat had been a second ago. Victor stepped over the body, planning on shutting the door to finish his business when he was overtaken by the rest of the platoon. It was one thing to kill the natives, but scragging an officer wouldn't be overlooked.

"Jimmy!" Victor roared, but the familiar presence that had always been there to protect his back was gone. The next morning, he faced the firing squad alone.

* * *

"Runt," Victor snarled. The rage faltered when Jimmy didn't react to the hated nickname. Instead, the short one's eyes locked on him. A shiver he refused to acknowledge crept down his spine when he looked into those brutally apathetic eyes.

"Victor." Stryker's voice froze the feral mutant. As much as he hated the human, Victor had learned obedience in payment for having a free rein during missions. Their working arrangement was the best he'd ever had. Better even than the army, where even though he could kill as much as he wanted, there were still limits and rules he was expected to follow.

"Come, we have business to tend to." IX said, ignoring the agitated team in favor of following Stryker down the hall to the interrogation rooms. They didn't look back to ensure the rest of the team followed. Wade's endless commentary was punctuated by Victor's irritable growls. The sound was similar enough to X's snarls that IX felt the fleeting brush of curiosity. He'd observed how the large man's eyes seemed to devour X, and he was certain the jab hadn't been meant for him. While he found the idea of X being a runt questionable, when compared to the other man he was small.

Before any more questions could be asked of the Major or the shortest addition to the team, the group was ushered into the largest interrogation room. The table had been removed, and only a single chair remained. Kayla Silverfox gave each member of the team a scathing look as they came into view. Her hands were cuffed to the arms of the chair. Dark, fathomless eyes flitted from familiar face to familiar face before they settled on the strangers.

"Logan, I see they captured you after all." Anger and grim satisfaction bled into the words. Five years ago she had been tasked with bringing the slippery mutant to heel, but even with the advantage of her powers, Logan had eluded her. When he'd vanished without a trace, she despaired. He was meant to be her and her sister's ticket out of this living nightmare, but he hadn't fallen into line the way he was meant to.

Kayla frowned when Logan didn't react to her words. Instead, a short dark haired boy stepped forward. "Kayla Silverfox, on the 20th of November you attempted to release test subject 129 and abandon your position as a member of Team X. The sentence for these crimes is death."

Her eyes widened in shock at the proclamation. While she hadn't really expected to get away with her failed bid for freedom, she never anticipated the lengths they would go to punish her. "You can't do that! I haven't had a trial, this absurd. You can't just kill me," Kayla's voice came out strong with her righteous conviction, but broke on the word kill. The chains clattered madly as she fought against them.

IX stared at her without compassion. "You fail to understand your position. You are a member of an elite organization that operates on the fringe of Government. What happens here is not a matter for courts. The Director is our judge and jury. And I am his executioner." The last word sank into the watching team like a carelessly flicked drop of acid. Venomous green eyes turned to the Major. "Retrieve test subject 129." Stryker scowled at being ordered around, but did as he was told. Now wasn't the time to show a divided front, and he knew that the brat was as much a spy for the Director as he was a leash for the wayward team.

"What? No, you can't hurt her. Please, it was my idea, leave Emma out of this," Kayla pleaded, tears making her wide brown eyes shimmer. "S-she can't be hurt, so you'll just be wasting your time. Leave her out of this."

IX watched her display and was unmoved by her obvious distress. The rest of the team members shifted uncomfortably, torn between pity for one of their own, and a growing unease for the slender green-eyed boy.

When the door opened, IX moved to stand next to Kayla, but his gaze fixated on the blond Stryker forced into the room before him. "Test subject 129, the scientists have learned all they can from you as a living sample. Your termination has been ordered by the Director." Wade winched at the blunt delivery, and shifted from foot to foot in agitation at the short brat's insensitivity. None of the team, well aside from Victor, liked the fact that they captured fellow mutants for the labs. Somehow, IX's cruelly indifferent words drove home the fact that they were the ones who captured Emma and now they would witness her being put down like a rat for dissection.

Instantly, Emma's body shifted to glittering stone. Even though her arms were cuffed behind her back, she stood straight and gave IX a cocky smirk. "You can't hurt me you little shit, so why don't you go back to your mommy and leave us alone?" The smirk faltered when the short boy didn't react to her taunting words. His green eyes remained blank, and his face seemed to be carved from porcelain and just as unmovable.

"You are correct. While your mutation is active, I cannot harm you. However, the same cannot be said of your sister." The bright overhead light flickered off a small dagger as it snaked out, carving a three inch long line down Kayla's cheek. The white of bone gleamed before blood splashed down the bound woman's front. Her scream, coupled with the swift display, made everyone in the room but X jump.

Emma's scream echoed her sister's as if she'd been the one sliced open. IX brought the blade up again and let it hover over Kayla's left eye. "Be silent." Trembling with both pain and mounting terror, Kayla choked the scream down to a whine. Emma's fear for her sister brought her own scream to an end.

Victor's eyes dilated when the hot stench of blood mingled with the growing taste of fear. It wasn't just the girls' fear that danced over his tongue like red wine. No, he could sense the moment the other teammates began to know fear for the Director's executioner. Even though it was just one little cut, the cold way the boy performed had a profound effect on the rest. Anyone who could cut up a woman's face without so much as flinching was someone to worry about.

In a move almost too fast to track, IX stepped behind Kayla's chair, reversed the blade and slammed it into the woman's chest.

"Kayla!" Terror lent the girl strength, and with another howl of fury, she broke away from Stryker's grip.

"Hold her."

X's sleek muscled arm locked around Emma's waist and jerked the girl back against his broad chest. He gave a low grunt when she slammed her heel back into his knee, but didn't let her go. "Kayla, don't be dead, God, don't be dead!" She screamed again.

Shifting, IX jerked the blade out, drawing another long screech from the bound woman. "Subject 129-"

"My name is EMMA! Stop hurting my sister, stop it!"

"Subject 129, I know every vital point of the human body." Again he drove the blade in, purposefully missing both lungs and heart. "More importantly, I know how to inflict the most damage without killing." He waited with inhuman patience for the women to stop screaming. When they'd quieted back down to whimpering, he continued.

"Tell me Subject 129, how much of your sister will I have to carve away before you yield?" IX did not understand love, but he had learned to take advantage of the bonds of affection that other humans felt for each other.

With a shuddering moan, Emma's defiant stance broke. The team watched her resolve crumble under the terrible weight of understanding. There was only one way out of this room, and that was in a body bag. The only question was how long it took to die. "I'm sorry, Kayla, I'm so sorry."

"No! D-don't worry about me, okay? They can't hurt you, and I'm dead anyway. Don't let them t-" her words were cut off by another brutal scream when IX drove the blade into her shoulder and twisted, shredding the muscles to inflict the greatest amount of damage. His face never changed, and those deadly eyes remained locked on Emma's, never flinching.

"Stop it! Monster. Stop hurting her, you can do what you want to me, but stop hurting my sister." Emma's skin returned to normal and tears flooded her eyes when she tried, and failed, to ignore Kayla's desperate pleas. Even if she wanted to let the nightmarish boy stab her in the chest, her mutation would react without her conscious consent. She didn't know what he wanted from her. Instead of punishing Kayla, or throwing his little knife at her, the stranger plucked a small vial from his pocket.

Moving with silent, frightening grace, IX approached her. He opened the vial and held it up to her trembling lips. "Drink." Everything in her demanded she pull away, but Emma's eyes never left the bloody, sobbing form of her beloved sister. Kayla risked everything to save them, and though it hadn't been enough, Emma couldn't bring herself to regret. Better to die now, than to live the rest of her life in that damned cage. Closing her eyes, she drank.

* * *

Scott would rather deal with twenty sugar high mutant teenagers in the mall than return to the burned out town, but he hadn't been given a choice. His shoulders ached from the ridged tension that kept his muscles from relaxing, and the dagger sharp pain was slowly crawling up his neck to settle into the base of his skull like a denning wolverine.

His morose thoughts broke when Jean's soft hand reached out to brush the side of his face. "Sorry," he whispered, certain that his clamoring mind was giving her an equally unpleasant headache. Because of their close bond, they'd found it harder for Jean to keep his thoughts out of her head than it was for everyone else. A beautiful smile lit her face at his quiet word. "It's alright, I know this case has been hard for you. We'll find her, and she won't be able to do this to anyone else." Scott knew she couldn't be sure of that, but he took comfort from her words all the same.

In truth, he knew that there was no way a mutant of the woman's power level would remain hidden for long. That was the problem. Would they be able to capture her before she struck again? And if they did catch up to her, how many of the X-Men would burn before she was subdued? They all knew they risked death by protecting the world from the more dangerous elements of their own community, but this mutant got to him more than any other they'd faced. They hadn't even met her yet, and he was already sick with fear over the damage she might do to his family.  _If she would burn an entire village of people, she wouldn't hesitate to roast us alive._

Even though Scott hated fighting Magneto and his ilk, at least he took comfort in the fact that the metal manipulator rarely killed his fellow mutants. No matter how savage the battles became, they didn't deliberately killed their own. Instinct plucked his nerves, leaving him certain that the one they faced now wouldn't honor that unspoken bond between mutants. No, this one would kill them as easily as she killed everyone else. Scott snorted at his own thoughts, even he couldn't help but think of the world in terms of Us and Them.

"We've reached the burned out area. We'll use that as the central point of our search and scan from the air first to see if we can locate anything of interest," Ororo's husky voice drew Scott out of his ever darkening thoughts and back to the task at hand.

"Sounds like a plan," he replied, his visored gaze taking in the winter landscape.

They flew in ever widening rings. Jean kept her eyes on the monitors, hoping they would pick something up if it was hidden from the air while the other two swept the ground. It took only twenty minutes for them to find the first battle site. A wide swath of the mountain side was covered in old scorch marks. "Was it her?" Jean asked once the jet found a clear place to land.

"No. I don't believe this damage was caused by the same mutant." Ororo's eyes narrowed as she took in the pattern. "In fact, I don't believe it was caused by a mutant at all." Walking forward, she began pointing out the fan pattern. "It looks more like the work of a flame thrower to me. Also, the vegetation was burned, but not turned to ash. The stone wasn't reduced to glass either."

Exasperation flared up in Jean at the words. "What in the world is going on here?"

"Someone died here," the quiet declaration froze both women mid-step. Scott had gone in the opposite direction and now stood at the edge of an old spatter pattern. There was a small burned out crater twenty feet away, and now that they were looking, they could see the rust colored stains intermingled with the scorched black. There wasn't a body, or perhaps pieces of a body would be more appropriate, but the circumference of the stain bore mute witness to a messy death.

"Do you think scavengers…" Jean couldn't finish.

Ororo frowned, her stomach churning even while she continued to look over the site. "No. Look, there are prints." Again she pointed. This time, they saw scuff marks from boots, larger than the prints of their girl, and of a different tread than the one who'd helped her. Silence descended on the small group like an oppressive fist as they set out to document what they could find. Once samples of the blood were collected, and the various prints photographed, they headed back to the jet.

* * *

Ice trickled a numb path down her throat, and for that Emma was grateful. She thought the poison would burn, but the cold was almost pleasant. Frosty fingers stretched into her chest, and she gasped when her heart lurched. Terror crashed into her when she felt the beat falter, speed up, and then shutter irregularly. Her frightened blue eyes locked on Kayla's. "I-it doesn't hurt. It's fine. Love you sis." Emma gasped when she felt her heart give a final painful squeeze before falling still. With her darkening vision, and numbness crawling down her limbs, she took one faltering step towards Kayla's bound form before her strength gave out and the world tilted out from under her.

Time slowed as she fell, and the pain of hitting the ground was a muted distant thing. "Emma? Oh God, Emma! Please, don't do this, please wake up!" Kayla's shrill scream made a little smile tug at her deathly pale lips.  _You always were the dramatic one_ , she thought fondly as darkness nibbled at the edges of her vision. Reality slid away from her, and the last thing she saw was the tiny assassin gliding towards her sister.  _See you on the other side Kay._

IX slid the now empty vial into his pocked before he turned and stalked towards the now hysterical female bound to the chair. Her desperate pleas had degraded to wordless shrieks after the first collapsed. His face remained expressionless when he turned, now standing behind the wailing woman, to face the silent team. In a move that was difficult for the eye to track, IX gripped Kayla's hair in his left hand and her delicate chin in his right.

The brittle crack of her spine silenced the woman forever and cemented his place on Team-X. He was the blade of the Director, the coldblooded one who would do whatever was required, even kill those who were once allies.

"Note to self: don't let shorty get the drinks." Wade's snarky tone couldn't hide the slight tremble of fear IX's little show inspired. He was a bad guy, and he delighted in the fact. But there was something about the way he'd played the sisters against each other that left him feeling ill.  _Fuck that, I'll never walk to my own death like a sacrificial goat._

Tilting his head slightly, IX pinned Wade with his dark gaze. He didn't say a word, but the taller man wilted all the same.

A suspicion had been growing in Zero from their first introduction, but it solidified into truth when the head tilt drew his eye to the zig-zagging scar on the youth's forehead. Closing his eyes, he remembered a burned out lot, a tiny blood soaked child whose power felt like a contained storm with tearful jade eyes, and so many bruises that the small scar had almost been lost under the discoloration.  _That's not possible, it's only been a couple of years since that mission_ , he reflected, but he couldn't deny the truth of his own eyes. The broken child he'd rescued, and the frozen young man he'd become were one in the same.  _I was right, they made you strong boy._

No one else on the team was willing to break the oppressive silence. Even Victor's glower was more subdued than normal. He wasn't afraid of the brat, not at all, but he still didn't want those empty orbs to turn his way. The kid was damned creepy, and he couldn't understand what Jimmy saw in him.

"Wraith, give them the tour, then bring them to the medical bay for their exams. When they're finished, show them their bunks. Dukes, take the bodies to the morgue. The rest of you, return to what you were doing," Stryker said, breaking the heavy silence.

"Awww, why does he get to give the grand tour?" Wade pouted.

"I don't want them to kill you because you wouldn't shut up." At first, Wade thought the Major was joking. Then he remembered that the man had been born without a sense of humor. His eyes flicked to the cooling corpse on the floor, and for the first time in his life he felt worried about his lack of brain, mouth filter. He was good, but short spokes was better, and there was a better than fair chance his mouth might write a check his ass couldn't cash.

"Er…well I forgot  _someone_  ate the last of the cheezy puffs," Wade sent a death glare at Chris, making the technopath flinch. "And there's no way we can live in this cement imitation of hell without the cheezy goodness!" With that, he turned and fled.

Victor scoffed, threw a last bitter glare at X, and stalked out the door without looking back at the dead women. They meant nothing to him, hell he'd done worse for fun when the mood struck him. No, X was the one who'd gotten under his skin. After Vietnam, he'd been offered a place on the team, but he never gave up the search for his little brother. Somewhere along the winding years, the hurt of betrayal turned to bitter hatred. When the tests came back that his body was incompatible with the bonding procedure, Victor had snidely told them about Jimmy.

If he was being honest with himself, Victor never thought they'd catch the runt. He hadn't been able to do it after all, but now he wished he'd kept his mouth shut. What had they done to his brother to turn him into  _that?_  Jimmy, no, he wasn't Jimmy any more. Now he was just another one of those damned lab rats who'd been twisted beyond recognition. It wasn't his flesh that had been damaged, but the person beneath the skin. Snarling, he turned and drove his fist into the wall of the empty hallway. Pain splintered up his arm, pulling another growl from his lips. Damn it all, Jimmy was his humanity. He'd always been the softer one. No more. One look into those feral eyes showed Victor a world soaked in blood, and an utter lack of anything resembling humanity.  _He would kill me, not because of our past, but because that little slip of a boy told him to do it._  Pain clawed his heart at the thought. Jimmy had finally become the killer Victor thought he wanted him to be, and only now did he realize that wasn't what he wanted after all.

* * *

It took them longer to process the second battle site, mostly because they just couldn't believe the sheer amount of bullets that had been used to pulverize the wilderness. That, and the remains of an avalanche had half buried the area of conflict. Scott scowled, glaring at the control panel while they took aerial photographs of the destruction. "This reeks of military. There's no way a private group would have access to this kind of fire power."

"Agreed." Ororo replied, taking the jet higher to recommence the search. This was the second area of conflict they'd found, but something didn't add up. "Why weren't there any fires? If the military came up against the mutant who attacked the town, why didn't she retaliate?"

Jean rubbed her temple with a tired fingertip to try and sooth the growing ache. "Nothing about this case is adding up. I don't think we'll know what truly went on here until we find the girl." They continued the search in silence for the next half hour, each lost in their own thoughts.

"There!" Jean's voice rose in excitement when she spotted a facility tucked into the side of a mountain. It looked like a government structure, but there were no guards, no movement at all. "I think it's abandoned," she whispered, excitement thrilled in her chest.

The jet landed smoothly in the open area in front of the building. The elation Jean felt at the discovery quickly soured into dread when they saw the mutilated door, and the old blood stains that had been left behind like a demented trail of bread crumbs for them to follow. It took more courage than was pretty to enter the darkened facility. They hadn't gone more than a dozen steps when the muted smell hit them. It wasn't as bad as it would be when summer came, but even in the dead of winter they could smell the corruption.

Scott swallowed hard, every step he took into the place drove a spike of fear into his gut. Closing his eyes, he fought to control the mounting terror. This wasn't the same facility he'd been held hostage at as a teen, but it had the same feel to it, the same oppressiveness that had nothing to do with the growing stench. "Come on," he whispered, licking his lips to try and fight the dryness in his throat.  _Xavier saved us then, I'm only sorry that we weren't able to save the mutants who'd been taken here_. He knew the Professor would have put an end to this place if he'd known of its existence, but even he couldn't know everything.

The only reason he'd been able to rescue Scott and the other children who'd been kidnapped was because one of the girls had been a perspective student that the school had approached only the week before she'd been snatched. Xavier was familiar with her mind, and was able to find her and the rest of them before they were too badly damaged by the scientists. Shaking his head, Scott forced himself to focus on the here and now.

Ororo's stomach lurched when they came across the first orange clad body. Decomposition was well under way, but she could see the almost delicate knife stroke that ended the man's life. Swallowing down the bile that wanted to rise, she knelt and photographed the injury. His body wasn't the last they found. Each one was killed with a single knife wound. Not always in the same place, but always fatal. "A team of assassins?" She questioned. "There are far too many bodies for it to be just one killer. Someone would have sounded an alarm, but all of these people look like they were taken by surprise."

"That's a possibility," Jean agreed. The two women entered a large lab side by side and didn't realize that Scott wasn't following until after they reached the first body. "Scott?" Jean turned, and her heart went out to him when she saw the pained look on his face.

Scott stood in the doorway, frozen. He couldn't stop looking at the medical equipment spread over the football field sized area. Fists clenched, he forced himself to step over the threshold. "I'm fine," he grunted, not expecting either of them to believe him, but knowing they would respect his determination to get through the task they'd been assigned.

Ororo nudged the first body over a bit so that they could see what killed the woman. They all flinched back when they saw her half melted face and the burned out optics where her eyes should have been. It was too much for Jean, and she stumbled away from the group, her lunch spilled from her parted lips in a wash of bitterness and shame. Gentle hands stroked her hair back from her face, holding it away from the mess while her guts churned, rejecting everything she'd eaten that day.

Leaving Scott to provide comfort, Ororo quickly photographed the woman before turning to the older female. A small throwing knife was lodged in the dead woman's throat. It was a cleaner death than the girl's, but dead was dead all the same. Her eyes were drawn up to the bank of computers where an image flickered on the screen. The power hadn't died in the facility, and Ororo went to the key board. She played back the video and felt rage sweep over her with such swiftness that thunder roared outside.

"Storm?" Jean's rough voice questioned.

"They were experimenting on mutants. Look at this." Each word was clipped and hung like frost in the air. Jean and Scott watched the corrupted video, which was mostly just a few jumbled fragments of auto and the one image of a child who had been badly beaten and was now covered in bristling probes. "Weapon IX?" Scott whispered, horror twisting his lips into a shuddering scowl. "They were turning children into weapons? If this boy is the ninth, then our girl could have been a predecessor who escaped. It's possible that another government or terrorist group found out about this place and attacked to gain control of the developing weapons. Come on, let's collect as much information as possible and get out of this tomb." The speech sounded brave, and matter of fact, but he couldn't keep his hands from shaking at the thought of spending any more time in this place.  _That could have been me, would have been me if Xavier hadn't saved me._ Not for the first time, he felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude to the Professor for what he'd done.

* * *

"These are the holding pens," Wraith shifted uncomfortably, but continued with the tour of Three Mile Island. He didn't like to look too closely at what he and the rest of the team did, and showing off the captive mutants made a ball of shame throb just below his sternum.  _It's better to be on this side of the bars_ , he reasoned. After all, Kayla and Emma just proved the price of attempted escape. While he could jump a good distance, Wraith had no doubt that his power alone wouldn't be enough to keep him safe if the Director wanted him dead.

IX and X took the invitation and walked slowly down the hall between cages. Blank green eyes took in each of the captives, his thoughts already turning to the best way to subdue or destroy each in turn. After killing Subject 129, IX recognized that he would likely be tasked with killing the rest when their time came. The thought didn't bother him, and his aloft demeanor kept the children from begging him for help even though he looked as young as them.

"Traitor," a low hiss drew IX's attention to the snake eyed girl who pressed herself close to the glass. Inhuman eyes locked on his as her dark tongue flicked out to try and taste his scent. IX didn't react to her looks, or the condemnation.

"I am what I am," the soft hiss made Viper rear back as if she'd been slapped.

Wraith cringed when the new mutant began hissing with snake girl. She'd always given him the creeps, and watching someone else talk to her in hisses was just wrong. "Um, well…let's get down to the medical wing. I'm sure the doctor is excited to have a couple new recruits to poke and prod."

IX turned away from the glaring female, not noticing how X slid easily between them, blocking her from view. His lips pealed back in a snarl that made the female step back from the glass. Even a snake wasn't foolish enough to challenge an angry wolverine.

"This way," Wraith lead the pair down the twisting corridors until they reached a brightly lit lab headed by a weedy looking man holding a needle. Wraith took one look at the dark haired doctor before he turned and fled, leaving IX and X to cope on their own.

"Ah, there you are. I was told to expect a pair of new patients today. I'm going to need blood and tissue samples from both of you, and the Major had something special in mind for you."

"Yes, sir." IX replied without flinching. The Professor had run an endless number of tests as well, so he knew what to expect. For the next two and a half hours, they gave their pound of flesh and blood, not to mention the endless battery of tests, scans, and anything else the demented doctor could think of.

"Alright, lay face down on the table. Because the two of you are not soldiers, but property, the Major decided you should be branded as such." The doctor was mildly surprised when the boy didn't ask a single question. The larger male watched his every move, but a glance from the boy kept him in check. Humming under his breath, he swabbed the back of IX's neck before preparing the first brand. A low growl trickled from X's lips when the doctor heated the thin strip of metal.

"Stand down." The command sank into him against his will, and X was forced to yield to his little mate's command.

IX closed his eyes and focused. He didn't flinch when the red-hot brand was pressed into the flesh at the base of his neck, instead he kept his attention drawn inward. Power welled up inside of him, and he had to hold it back.  _Be still, heal, but scar._  It was difficult to keep his mutation from healing him completely as it always had. The pain of each of the three strikes sank into his flesh, but IX did not allow the external agony to break his focus.

The stench of burned flesh lingered on the air, and the doctor gave a surprised whistle when he watched the three brand strikes instantly heal into neat scars.

**IX**

"Well that's nifty. Next!" He didn't see X's dark look. IX slipped off the table and motioned for X to take his place.

It only took a moment for the doctor to realize that they were going to have a problem. A second after laying the first strike, the wound melted back into his flesh, completely healed. Frowning, he tried again with the same result. Two small hands rested against X's skin leaving just enough space for the brand between them. A soft purring growl slipped from X's lips when he felt the power sink into his flesh. "Try it now." IX's monotone voice commanded. Shrugging, not expecting this time to be any better, the doctor tried the brand again. The burn started to heal, but slowly, leaving behind the same clean scars that IX's neck now bore. With a satisfied grin, as if it had all been his idea, the doctor applied the second strike, leaving a bold  **X** at the base of the weapon's neck.

"All done, off you get."

Slipping off the table, X led the way out of the medical lab. They had just exited when the large male turned and grabbed IX. His rough grip jerked the smaller male's shirt to the side exposing his marred shoulder to X's punishing teeth. IX hung passively in his grip, a low sigh escaped his parted lips when X's tongue began bathing the wound. Strong arms wrapped possessively around his delicate frame, and he didn't fight the hold.

"Well, isn't this sweet," Victor drawled. X's head snapped up, ruby droplets clung to his lips, and stained his snarling teeth. Without ceremony, IX was shoved behind his larger bulk and X took an aggressive step forward. Smirking, Victor held up his hands to show he wasn't armed. "So you do have a soft spot don't you little brother." The weapon didn't respond, and Victor's dark smile grew. He could smell his brother's lust on the air even though the boy's scent remained disinterested. "Come on. Mission time. Now we'll see if the two of you are worth your salt or not."


	14. Mission Accepted

"Fighting terrorism is not unlike fighting a deadly cancer. It can't be treated just where it's visible – every diseased cell in the body must be destroyed." – David Hackworth

* * *

Chris deliberately took the seat furthest away from the small assassin, not because he was afraid of the green-eyed male, but because he felt physically repulsed by the other mutant. It had nothing to do with morals, no, it was power. Something about his power was inherently incompatible with IX, and he didn't know what would happen if they were too close together and both used their mutation. The technopath shifted in his seat when IX's gaze fell on him as if he knew what the other man was thinking.  _Maybe he does? I wonder if he agrees, if he feels the repulsion too._ Were Chris bolder, he might have asked, instead he let the matter drop. He would continue on his campaign of avoidance and hope nothing came of his vague worries.

Before he could lose himself further in thoughts of their newest member, Major Stryker called the meeting to order.

"In recent months, the terrorist group known as The Ten Rings has acquired a stockpile of Stark Industry weaponry. As you may know, Stark products are the height military technology. Thus far, we haven't been able to find the leak in the company allowing the underhanded dealing. This organization has grown to the point where it needs to be eliminated, along with anyone in Stark Industries who has ties to The Ten Rings. If they're willing to supply to one terrorist organization, they will supply others.

"Zero, you will be sent in under cover to join the group. Unlike most of these organizations, The Ten Rings spans a number of different cultural backgrounds, and while they present a front of Islam extremism, we've deduced that power motivates them more than religious ideals. You will gather intel, and identify every member of the organization. Your primary objective is learning how they are connected to Stark Industries. When you're finished, you will give the information to IX, and he will neutralize them."

X gave a low growl when he was not mentioned in the briefing. Victor's fangs peaked out when he grinned at his brother's unhappiness at being separated from his pet. Yes, he'd certainly found Jimmy's weak point.

"IX, you will be stationed in Afghanistan as an outside observer. Gather as much information as possible but do not allow yourself to be captured or seen as a threat. With your youthful appearance, you should be able to go undetected." Stryker eyed IX. This assignment was more than simply removing a dangerous threat to the U.S. It was a test of the boy's skills. While killing the two traitors showed a willingness to do what needed to be done, as well as a useful innovative streak, it didn't give the Major a full scope of his skills. Killing two unarmed women, one who was bound to a chair, wasn't difficult. This task would require stealth, skill, and nerves of steel. He deliberately kept X out of the mission to see how the boy did without his menacing backup. Yes, this was a test for IX alone, and he would prove his worth or lose his life trying.

Looking around the room, his breath caught when his eyes locked on X's cold whisky gaze. The large feral's gaze promised death should IX not return from this mission. It was only the small hand resting on X's wrist that kept him seated.

"Zero and IX, your plane leaves tomorrow at 0800, dismissed." With that, the Major left.

"No fair, why do you get to be the first to play with the little one?" Wade whined.  _Shink!_  His eyes widened in shock when three long metal blades hissed out from between X's knuckles. "Well, that's nifty! X the walking can opener." Before X could spring up and attack, IX brushed his fingers over the brand mark on the back of X's neck.

"Come." The soft monotone word was enough to rein in the large male's temper. IX stood to leave, drawing X along behind.

"Ahh, so that's how it is huh? I see who the dom is in this relationship." Wade chortled, unable to help himself as he imagined IX in black leathers wielding a whip and whispering  _cum_ in that dead voice of his. Every muscle in X's body tensed at the taunt, but IX was the one who replied.

"Wilson, you should learn to hold your tongue. I won't always be here to stop him from killing you." Wade's smirk wilted around the edges when he realized he wasn't joking.  _Hell, the kid couldn't tell a joke if I had him read it word for word_ , he thought sourly. Before he could think of another snarky reply, the pair left.  _Getting in one last romp before the mission I bet_ , he thought. Now that his mind had put them together as a couple, he couldn't get the images out of his dirty thoughts.

A low chuckle drew Wade's attention to Creed. The brutish male grinned at him, flashing a set of dainty fangs that would make a panther proud. "Gee Wade, you're going to be the first assassin to die because of sarcasm."

Wade pouted. "As if bitch boy could take me. Sure, he's got claws that make yours look like an ugly kittens, but my swords are longer." He grinned at the glare Victor gave.

Zero ignored the bickering, instead he pulled out his laptop and familiarized himself with the mission parameters and the target he would soon infiltrate. The Ten Rings hid behind a smoke screen of Islamic fanaticism, but he saw what the Major meant when it came to recruitment. They were a group that used terror to gain control, but it was power they truly wanted. A slight smile curved his lips as he looked over the bait. He had been given a small stock pile of Stark weapons, but the true hook was the partial blue prints to the crown jewel of Stark Industries. The Jericho Missile. The prints were just enough to entice, but not quite enough for them to build the weapon. In short, they were perfect, his free ticket into the organization.

* * *

IX left X in their assigned room to keep the larger male from hovering while he put his kit together. Getting used to dealing with X outside of training was difficult for the small weapon. When they'd been forced out into the elements without the proper supplies, it was reasonable for him to give over power to X. The climate, no matter how biting, wouldn't be able to kill the near-immortal. But for IX it had been a dangerous unknown.

That initial show of weakness once they were out of the relative safety of the training unit had a profound effect on X, cementing the role of protector into the feral mutant's mind. While those protective instincts had been of use during their last mission, they were proving to be a hindrance now. IX did not require protection from the mutants they were in command of, but X still growled and placed himself between IX and the rest of the team like an irritable muscle bound shield.

Success on this mission should prove his worth, and show X that he was capable of being outside of the other man's sight without coming to harm. When IX rounded the next corner, a clawed hand shot out, coiled around his throat and slammed him into the adjacent wall. His breath exploded out of his chest while the soles of his shoes dangled feet above the ground, but no fear touched IX's emerald eyes. Victor's lips curled in a teasing smirk as he held up the slender male with one arm. "Not so strong after all," he rumbled, leaning forward to breathe in IX's dark scent, flavored with ash, blood, and lightening. Overlaying it all was the long lost scent of his brother. Another snarl vibrated through him at the scent. "I wonder what Jimmy will do when he smells me on you, when my mark covers his, knowing he wasn't here to protect you." The claws dug a little deeper into his throat, drawing a single drop of blood.

Still the expected fear didn't come. IX locked eyes with Victor's instead. "Your mistake is believing I require anyone's protection." Before the meaning of his words could sink in, IX moved. A slender dagger lashed out swift as liquid silver. Its edge licked over the wrist that held him captive, instead of going for the more tender organs. Years of sparring with X had taught him the best method for fighting against someone with an enhanced healing factor. The hand holding him aloft opened when the ligaments were severed, causing IX to drop. Victor roared, his large fist drove downwards to crush the pathetic insect that dared try to escape him.

IX rolled when his feet touched the floor, his slender frame easily slipping behind Victor before he struck again. The bloodied blade nipped across the backs of the large man's knees, sending him crashing to the floor. Before he could regain his equilibrium, IX leapt. His light weight, coupled with his momentum, was enough to drive the air from his opponent when he crashed down onto his back and perched there like a vulture eyeing a dying water buffalo. Twin blades sank into either side of Victor's neck, each razor edge bit down until it rested almost gently into the slender gap between the C5 and C6 cervical vertebrae. They were arched just enough so that if the larger mutant attempted to lift his head, he would succeed in decapitating himself. Blood spread in a growing pool beneath them, liquid ruby that was the only truth in such life and death struggles.

"Make no mistake Creed, I do not require you to make this team functional. You do not believe your life can be taken, but if I cleave your head from your shoulders, know this, I will burn it to ash. Then the scientists will still have the rest of your corpse to dissect at their leisure." IX's voice held no malice, it delivered the threat with a serenity that made Victor's heart shutter in his massive chest. Being killed by IX would be a wretched fate because he knew it would be done with utter dispassion. While his brother might kill him, it would be a thing of hate and fire, like a tiger tearing out his throat. IX on the other hand was cold and empty. He would kill in the same way the undertow would, a force that drags one down and pulls them out to sea with the supreme indifference of the cold glittering stars.

Victor's claws dug furrows into the linoleum, every muscle strained against the urge to knock the small killer off his back. Only the small twinges of numbness shooting down his left side kept him still. The knives rested against his spinal cord, and he knew it wouldn't take more than a leisurely twitch for IX to finish it. Something coiled in his gut like a restless snake, and it took Victor a minute to recognize the emotion. Fear. For the first time in his exceptionally long life, he felt death was near at hand. IX had him, and his actions now would decide his fate.

A small gasp brought IX's head up and made his prey still further to resist the impulse to try and glance up too. "Did you need something?"

"N-no," Chris squeaked, his eyes as wide as silver dollars in his face while he stared at the bloody scene. Any thought about not being afraid of IX had been violently shoved out of his mind when he witnessed Creed's unmitigated defeat. If the short mutant could take someone like Creed down without breaking a sweat, then Chris knew he'd be dead in less time than it took for Wade to annoy Stryker.

"Then leave us."

Gulping, Chris did the only sensible thing he could. He turned and fled, hoping with all his heart that Creed didn't recognize his voice. IX might kill him in the blink of an eye, but Creed would gut him slowly if he knew who had witnessed his humiliation.

The lightest shifting of weight told Victor that he once again had IX's undivided attention. "Do you yield?" Although his tone was indifferent, the unrelenting bite of the knives lodged in his spine ensured that the answer would not be taken lightly. If he lied at this juncture and IX detected the falsehood, it would be his head. Swallowing, the harp wire tension drained out of the downed mutant. His claws retracted and the large hands rested limply on the scarred floor.

"Yes."

* * *

A low growl was the only warning given. IX didn't bother attempting to evade the harsh grip on his throat as he was seized for the second time in less than half an hour. X didn't slam him into a wall, but the stern grip made his breath rasp in the charged silence of their room. "I dealt with Creed, he learned his place."

X's whisky gaze narrowed, and a large thumb stroked roughly over the small gouge in his throat. "The debt was repaid." A low snort met the smaller mutant's words. X could smell the heavy tang of fresh spilled blood that clung to his little mate's form. Jerking IX's head to the side, his tongue stroked leisurely over the incriminating mark, erasing the scent of the other feral. Sharp teeth nipped the tender skin in reprimand for forcing him to stay behind, now and during the upcoming mission. Still, he would use the time IX was away to ensure that Creed understood the green-eyed male was not to be touched.

Baring his teeth in a savage grin, X bent and jerked IX off his feet. In three quick steps he folded himself onto the bottom bunk before tucking IX against his chest to sleep. IX grunted and tried to push off of the larger male, but thick arms held him captive. "Release me. We have two separate beds. It is no longer necessary for us to share body heat to survive." A small flash of irritation sparked in the back of his mind when X made no move to follow his directive. Instead, he just snuggled IX closer and nuzzled his neck. Again, IX tried to squirm away. "This bed is too small for both of us," he muttered in defeat, recognizing a losing battle when he saw one.

Something hard jabbed against his lower stomach, and IX gave another low sound of aggravation as he shifted in an attempt to find a more comfortable position. A small hand slipped between the pair and grabbed the hard shaft. X whimpered pitifully when he felt the delicate fingers grip him through the thin material of his sleeping pants. Before he could react, the little male in his arms adjusted his throbbing length to lay flat between them and let go.

Flat green eyes held a flicker of curiosity as they studied X. "Are you hurt?" he asked, wanting an explanation for the painful sound that had clawed its way out of X's throat. Another low whine was the only answer before X sank his teeth into his shoulder. The sharp pain was a familiar comfort, and IX decided his partner was unhurt. Closing his eyes, he let darkness claim him while he remained blissfully ignorant of X's plight. Shuddering with unquenched desire, X held IX close, and satisfied himself with the lighting laced blood dancing over his tongue.

* * *

The endless hours of the flight passed in a comfortable silence. IX reflected that Zero was an agreeable partner. He didn't waste time on meaningless conversation, instead he remained focused on the upcoming mission and the part he would be required to play. After they landed, they went their separate ways.

Afghanistan was colder than IX had expected, but it wasn't as bad as the Canadian wilderness. This time his clothing was suited to the environment and he was able to maintain a comfortable temperature. The landscape was a barren expanse that felt alien to IX. Although he had never experienced a true city, most of his mindscape training had been conducted in the urban setting. The only wilderness experience had been the shadows forest, and that had been close enough to the land outside of the training facility that he felt a mild connection to it. The desert was unlike anything he'd experienced before. Its tumbled rocks, scrubby plants, and hidden life grated against his nerves like the sand laced wind scraped at his exposed skin.

Ignoring the unpleasant feelings, IX began scouting the terrain for suitable shelter. It didn't take long for him to find a small uninhabited cave just west of the terrorists domicile. The structure was smaller than a bathroom, tucked away in a tumble of rocks.  _SSSHHHHHHH_ , a small throwing knife skewered the snake before it could do more than rub its scales together to create the warning sound. IX searched the cave with care for wildlife before he began skinning the serpent. After setting up a small smokeless fire to cook his makeshift supper, IX set up his small camp area.

IX settled in to eat when a low voice whispered deep in his mind from the link that had been given to Zero for the mission. "IX, this is Zero, over."

"This is IX. Report your current position and the status of the mission, over."

"This is Zero. Infiltration successful, unexpected development. This is the group that kidnapped Stark three months ago, I repeat, Stark is being held by The Ten Rings. Orders? Over."

"This is IX. Report received, stand by for further orders."

With a thought, IX disconnected the current transmission and shifted to connect with Major Stryker.

"Stryker, this is IX, over."

"This is Stryker, continue."

"This is IX. Stark a captive of the rebel faction and is being held at the terrorist base. Requesting orders, sir. Over."

"This is Stryker. Leave Stark where he is as long as it doesn't appear he is in imminent danger. Should the risk level increase, evacuate him and complete the mission. Over."

"This is IX. Understood. Over and out."

Focusing his attention back to the connection with Zero, IX spoke. "This is IX. Orders are as follows. Leave Stark unless the situation degrades and his death is imminent. Should that occur, he is to be evacuated before resumption of the mission. Over."

"This is Zero. Stark appears to be wounded. You should review his condition in person to see if the damage is survivable or not. Meet me at 0200 during the shift change and I will slip you into the compound. Over."

"This is IX. Understood, over and out."

The lightly spiced meat of the snake was filling. IX was glad he'd learned how to cook for himself out in the wilderness. Even now, he preferred flesh cooked over an open fire to the MRE's that made up most of his diet. Once the meal was finished, he doused the fire and curled up in his bedroll to catch a few hours of sleep.

* * *

Zero waited, breathing in a low tendril of smoke from the cigarette that had been his excuse for leaving the cave. "Ready?" He jumped at the softly spoken word, his hand on his gun and half turned before he recognized the monotone.

Gritting his teeth at the ease with which IX had snuck up on him, he turned and glared at the short teen. IX was dressed like a native, his head and face wrapped to both hide his features and protect against the biting cold. He could easily pass for one of the criminals, albeit a short one. "Yes, come on." Zero replied, while trying to keep the irritation out of his tone. It wasn't IX's fault that he'd bested the tracker, but Zero didn't like having to swallow his pride at such an early juncture of the mission.  _Now I see why he was chosen to play assassin for our team. He could have killed me before I knew he was there._ That reality wasn't a comforting one, and he knew that the rest of his life belonged to Stryker and his higher ups if this was the guard dog brought in to keep them in line. Zero was tempted to turn and shoot, killing the youth and blaming it on the terrorists. Instead, he continued walking. The odds of such a spur of the moment plan working were slim, and his death would be the only likely result. Better to wait and see how things progressed. He had nothing against his current team, or the work they did, so he should never come into conflict with IX or X.

The few people they passed didn't spare a second glance for the slender shadow following at his side. Something about the boy seemed to force curious eyes away when he was working undercover like this. He moved like someone who not only belonged, but who had always been a part of the scenery.

Zero took a small detour to the supply area to grab two servings of unappealing mush and a pair of stone hard rolls as an excuse to visit the prisoners. IX followed at his heels like the ghost of an obedient dog, making less sound than a drifting cloud as they passed through the reinforced door that housed the prisoners.

While Zero berated the prisoners in the harsh guttural tones of Mongolian, IX slipped deeper into the cluttered cavern before disappearing into the shadows. It didn't take long for the clang of the door to announce his partner's departure, leaving IX alone to wait until the pair slept.

"You know, I really do think they make this out of dirt and camel piss. I mean this must be the reason everyone in this country is so pissed off all the time. The food is awful," Tony whined, glowering down at the brownish tan sludge that had been presented as dinner. Grunting, he banged the roll against the table and cringed at the loud clank the dense bread made instead of crumbling or even denting. "Are they trying to starve us into submission or what?"

Yinsen sighed at the billionaire's antics and put his biscuit into the sludge to soften up and make it edible. "You might as well eat and regain your strength instead of moaning about the quality." If it wasn't for the brilliant mind behind that foolish mouth, Yinsen knew the man would have been shot within the first hour of his captivity. Even though every word out of Stark's mouth was asinine, Yinsen had grown accustomed to the American. The arc reactor now residing in Stark's chest was impressive enough to earn his respect, if nothing else.

The arc reactor, and the soft tissue plans that were slowly coming to life. Yinsen didn't know if Stark was mad, or brilliant, but he wished the man well in either case. The odds of the machine working were slim, and death was a near certainty.  _It's fine, we'll take some of them with us to the promise land._

Once the sorry excuse of a meal was finished, the two men got back to work. Neither noticed the silent shadow observing their progress.

* * *

IX watched the men work. Having studied the plans for the Jericho Missile, he knew at a glance that whatever Stark was concocting wasn't a missile of any sort. His eyes narrowed when the one assisting Stark began strapping a bit of the contraption to the billionaire.

Over the next several hours, he observed the pair as they tested different parts of the hybrid mix of body armor and robot. Now he understood why he'd been ordered to leave the man in place. Genius at times required the illusion of impossibility to function at its highest levels, and Stark was proving his worth in the hard hands of his captors. IX's contempt for the guards grew as the men's audacious plan neared completion. Had he been in command of them, they would have produced what was required of them instead of creating something that would facilitate their future escape. If this was an example of the skill of the organization, they wouldn't be difficult to destroy.

IX's dark thoughts were interrupted by the door crashing open. Green eyes narrowed on the contingent of guards, and a small black blade slid into his palm.

With a casual swipe of the hand, Stark shifted the pile of plans enough that they appeared to be meaningless scrawlings.

The man standing in the center of the group stalked forward and ran a finger over the arc reactor glowing softly in Stark's bare chest. "Relax." Raza, the new commander of the base, said with a dark smile. "The bow and arrow once was the pinnacle of weapons technology," he continued before stepping around Stark and glancing down at the scattered sheets of paper. "It allowed the great Genghis Khan to rule from the Pacific to the Ukraine. An empire twice the size of Alexander the Great and four times the size of the Roman Empire. But today, whoever holds the latest Stark weapons rules these lands. And soon, it will be my turn."

Tony watched the man warily. He looked like one of the board of directors when he thinks he's gotten Tony backed into a corner.  _Except this time I'm backed into a cave, unarmed, and outnumbered by a bunch of desert madmen,_  he conceded. No matter how uncomfortable the board meetings got, they'd never been as bad as all this.

Suddenly, the dark man's smile melted into a scowl, and his next words were spoken in a language Tony couldn't understand. " _Why have you failed me?"_

"Er…I-"

Yinsen's voice cut him off in the same foreign tongue " _we're working. Diligently."_

Pit black eyes shifted from the American to Yinsen. " _I let you live. This is how you repay me?"_

" _It's very complex. He's trying very hard."_

" _On his knees."_ Raza barked. The guards grabbed Yinsen's arms and forced him to the ground. " _You think I'm a fool? I'll get the truth."_

Stark's eyes leapt between Yinsen and Raza. Fear, an emotion he'd become uncomfortably familiar with in his time here, curdled the sludge in his stomach. The unwelcome emotion ratcheted up a notch when Raza picked up a hot iron and walked towards his kneeling companion.

" _We're both working."_ Yinsen whispered, even though he knew the words would fall on deaf ears.

" _Open your mouth."_

Stiffening his spine, Tony snapped "What does he want?"

The demand was ignored. IX didn't move from his shadowed corner, content to allow this to play out since Stark wasn't being threatened.

" _You think I'm a fool?"_  Raza snarled. Anger transforming his features into a harsh mask.

"What's going on?" Tony demanded again.

" _Tell me the truth."_

" _He's building your Jericho."_

In one swift motion, Raza grasped a fist full of Yinsen's hair and shoved his head onto an anvil. " _Tell me the truth!"_

" _He's building your Jericho!"_

Something akin to panic fluttered in Tony's chest when the hot iron neared Yinsen's face. "What do you want? A delivery date? I need him. Good assistant." He tried, grasping at straws to try and stop what was happening.

For a tense minute, Raza remained poised to strike. Then he let the iron fall with a clang. Turning he gave Tony a black look. "You have 48 hours to assemble my missile."

The door slammed behind the guards, leaving a heavy silence behind. Yinsen's breath came out in a long shuddering sigh. Tony reached out and helped the older man up, both ignored the way his hands shook. "Come on, let's get some sleep. We'll finish everything up tomorrow."

* * *

Mere hours after IX departure, the rest of the base ached for his return. X stalked the halls like wolf who's found itself locked inside a building. Everyone he passed couldn't help but cringe when his savage gaze tore across their faces before dismissing them.

"Relax little brother, I'm sure your little fuck toy will be back soon." Victor bit back a curse when X twisted around, claws extended, and lunged without warning. Pain lashed across his broad chest, spilling blood in a hot wave. The cuts were deep, but not deep enough to sever bone. "I see the lab pukes managed to finally give you the killer instinct," he snarled, his own nails lengthening into lethal talons. The two men circled each other. Ducking under a swipe that would have decapitated him, Victor drove his claws into X's exposed gut before twisting away, ripping along the flesh for added damage. "Shit." He hissed when the wounds healed so fast X's blood hadn't even spilled. "What the he-"

A fist slammed into the side of his head, and the force of the blow sent Victor to the ground. In an instant X was on him. Agony exploded through the large male as blades carved into his flesh. The pool of blood beneath them grew, and Victor's body went limp in submission, acknowledging before his brain could catch up that he was defeated. Still the savage attack continued, pain inflicted as punishment for daring to touch his mate, and the need to dominate coloring X's primitive brain red.

"Stand down." The voice snapped through the killing haze that engulfed X and he jerked upright as the leash of obedience drove spikes of agony into his brain. Victor was unrecognizable, but the large chest haltingly rose and fell, showing that he wasn't dead yet. X's blood stained lips curled in a snarl. "I said, stand down X." Stryker's cold voice forced his attention around to his new keeper. "I won't ask you again. Clean yourself up and return to your quarters. You will remain there until IX's return. Is that understood?" Brown eyes narrowed, but X's shaggy head dipped in acknowledgment before he turned and stalked away, leaving crimson footprints in his wake.

Kneeling outside of the pool of blood, Stryker observed the damage with a jaundiced eye. "You were warned to leave IX and X be, and now I find that you've almost been killed by both. Listen carefully Creed. This is your last warning, you are one of my more valuable tools, but in the end you're just that … a tool. If you can't function with the new team members, then you are worthless to me. I won't save your sorry hide again. Now drag yourself down to the medic and let him piece you back together. Even your healing factor is going to need a little help."

* * *

It didn't take long for the exhausted men to pass out even though the cots were about as comfortable as boulders. IX waited until quiet snores announced their departure into the realm of sleep before he moved. His silent stride took him to Stark's side. It had been nearly three months since the attack on Stark's caravan. After the first week of no contact demanding payment, the billionaire was presumed dead by military personnel even if there was still public outcry that he had to be alive.  _It appears the civilians were correct_ , IX mused as he studied the gaunt man. Captivity hadn't been kind to him.

IX's eyes drifted down to Stark's exposed chest, and focused on the strange object imbedded into the flesh. Reaching out, he laid a hand over the soft blue glow and closed his eyes. The smallest trickle of power slipped from his skin and into the device, careful, ready to pull back at the slightest sign that the power would interfere with whatever the thing was supposed to do. Instead of the spike of pain and push back electricity gave before it clashed violently with his power, he felt a soothing hum that complemented his own power instead of fighting it.  _Strange,_ he thought before allowing more of his power to sink into the sleeping man.

One breath, two, and he found the purpose of the object in the jagged slivers of metal lodged in Stark's chest. Metal that was being kept from his vital organs by the strange device. With enough time, IX could have extracted and healed the damage, but it would have been a painful affaire, and his mission would be compromised if he revealed himself to Stark.

Opening his eyes, he froze when his gaze was captured by curious brown.

"Who're you?" Tony's sleep slurred voice broke the silence.


	15. Mission Complete

"May God have mercy upon my enemies, because I won't." – George Patton

* * *

"Who're you?" Tony's sleep slurred voice broke the silence.

Before the prone man could do more than blink in confusion, IX's hand darted to Tony's throat and compressed the corroded artery. A large hand came up and gripped the fragile wrist, but not soon enough to keep darkness from devouring his vision. "No one." The dead voice echoed in his fading thoughts, following him down into unconsciousness, branding the sight of brilliant dead green eyes into his mind.

The tight grip on his wrist loosened and fell away. IX gave the haggard man one last glance before he shifted his attention to the now complete suit. He slipped a small disposable camera from his pocket and took several photos of the mechanized armor before vanishing back to his bolt hole.

Tony's eyes fluttered open and he jerked up, looking around for the green eyed boy. The cavern turned prison was empty save for himself and Yinsen. "A dream?" He whispered, but the weird tingles radiating out from the arc reactor in his chest lingered. The strange sensation woke him the first time, and had yet to fade entirely. Reaching up, Tony rubbed his tired eyes and allowed himself to fall back. Sleep. That was the ticket. Tomorrow was going to be a big day.

* * *

Sitting down, IX focused and contacted Zero. "Zero, this is IX, over."

"This is Zero, report. Over." The low voice whispered through IX's mind.

"This is IX, abandon your post. Upload the information gathered and wait on the outskirts of the terrorists' domain. Stark is going to make his escape tomorrow. Follow his retreat and ensure he is picked up after he gains his freedom. Over."

"This is Zero, beginning upload now. Over."

IX's teeth clenched in pain as information poured into his mind. A surprisingly large amount of data flowed into his conscious, proof that Zero hadn't been idle. Names, faces, and locations flitted over the surface of his mind for later consideration. "This is IX, upload received. I will remain here and observe the aftermath of the escape. You follow Stark and oversee his return to the States. Over and out."

When he was finished, IX vanished again. Taking the high ground, he stretched out flat and waited. From his position, he had a perfect view of the cave opening. Hours passed, and the baking sun began to chase the shadows from the sky. The light crawled over the desert, sending the darkness fleeing before it and slowly turning the icy night into burning day.

The sun cut a blazing trail half way up the sky before anything of interest happened. IX watched the innocent looking cave erupt into violence. Stark's new weapon was too flashy for IX to fully appreciate, but it had the desired effect. Bullets couldn't stop the machine, and the weaponry Stark managed to fuse to the machine ripped through the terrorists with ease, leaving burning corpses in its wake. Then came the most impressive part of all. The machine lifted off into the sky bearing the billionaire off to whatever fate awaited him.  _He is Zero's problem now._

Dismissing Stark, IX continued the task of observation. Over the next several hours the cave resembled an anthill kicked over by a bored child. The remaining terrorists dealt with the dead, put out the fires, and then took to the desert to begin searching for the remains of Stark's device. IX considered destroying the suits remains before they could be found, but decided to let things play out for a while longer.

Days passed while IX remained focused on the terrorists' hideout before anything further happened. IX watched several SUV's drive into the camp. Something akin to satisfaction flared in his chest when Obadiah Stane exited one of the vehicles followed by a group of heavily armed security personnel.

"Stryker, this is IX, over," IX studied the number of guards, memorizing faces.

"This is Stryker, continue."

"This is IX. Stane has arrived and was greeted in a friendly manner. Please advise. Over."

"This is Stryker. Get close enough to overhear the conversation, then allow Mr. Stane to leave. Once he's gone, eliminate the terrorist threat. Go to the States after you've finished the data collection. Deal with Stane there. Make it appear as though the Ten Rings was behind the death. Over and out."

Ending the communication, IX focused on the cavern where Stark had been kept. In an instant, he vanished. Exiting the cave, he slipped unnoticed to the back of the tent where the two leaders were meeting. The words were muffled, but distinct, and all it took was a couple flicks with a knife to cut a small eye hole into the fabric. IX watched the drama play out.

"So this is how he did it." Obadiah muttered under his breath as he examined the reassembled suit of armor.

Raza's eyes narrowed as he studied the dull metal. "This is only a first, crude effort. Stark perfected his design. He made a masterpiece of death. A man with a dozen of these could rule all of Asia. You dream of Stark's throne. We have a common enemy, you and I. If we are still in business, I will give you these designs as a gift, and in turn I hope you'll repay me with a gift of iron soldiers."

IX's body gave an unpleasant jolt when Obadiah used a small electronic device on Raza to incapacitate the man. Though he was too far away to feel the full effects, he got enough of the backlash to develop a throbbing headache. Still, he remained standing and watched Stane remove the protective ear plugs from his ears. "This is the only gift I'll give you. Technology. It's always been your Achilles' heel in this part of the world. Don't worry it'll only last for 15 minutes. That's the least of your problems."

"Crate up the armor and the rest of it. All right, let's finish up here." Stane ordered after stalking out of the tent. The Ten Rings soldiers were on their knees, covered by Stane's guards.

The low hiss of a blade through cloth whispered through the tent after Stane left. Raza's eyes widened, but his body was still frozen, unable to react when the short green eyed boy stepped forward. A pale hand reached out and gripped the man's shoulder. The sound of gunfire crackled before they vanished.

* * *

Raza thrashed, but it was useless. Before the effects of Stane's attack abated, IX chained his arms above his head using hand cuffs attached to an eye bolt drilled into the side of a bolder the size of a house. He wasn't sure what the short male had planned for him. Instead of forcing him to stand, he was in a seated position, and the most curious part was his left leg. That had been shackled to a second rock, forcing the leg out and straight. The shackle was bolted directly into the stone, leaving no slack for movement.

"Who are you?" Raza growled, after realizing he couldn't escape. The words were thick with rage, making his accent so heavy they blurred together into a growl.

IX ignored the question. "I am seeking information about the Ten Rings. Obadiah Stane dealt with the rest of your men at the cave and left. You are the only source of information available." He spoke unhurriedly, never looking away from the bound man's face. Raza grinned, causing IX to tilt his head curiously. He might not understand emotions, but he doubted grinning was the appropriate response to this situation.

"Little boy. Do you think you have the balls to break me?" He laughed, but the sound wilted when he realized his words didn't appear to bother his captor.

IX didn't respond with words. Instead, he pulled a small, wickedly sharp knife from his belt and cut Raza's pants from knee to ankle on the shackled leg. "You will tell me everything you know about The Ten Rings, its members, operations, bases, and aims. Do you understand?"

"Fuck you!"

"Who are the leaders of your organization?"

"I said, fuck…you."

Instead of repeating the question, IX placed the knife at the base of Raza's exposed knee cap. The leg tensed, and light pressure was all that was needed to break the skin. It was a small prick, hardly even painful considering the sharpness of the knife. "Ha, fool. You don't have the stomach for this work. You are pathetic." Still, the short assassin didn't react to the taunts. The lack of reaction was more disturbing than the slight cut.

"Who are the leaders of your organization?"

Raza glared, refusing to dignify the question with an answer. IX didn't indulge in the normal theatrics or mind games other interrogators favored. No, he simply brought the knife down in a single, smooth cut that opened the terrorist up from knee to ankle. The slice was shallow, only cleaving the skin and leaving the muscle beneath untouched.

A low hiss escaped Raza, but he wasn't impressed. Yes, it hurt, but it was hardly the worse pain he'd ever felt. "Pathetic," he snarled.

"Who are the leaders of your organization?"

The monotone of his captor's voice grated at Raza's nerves, and he was beginning to understand the nature of his interrogator. It was rare, but there were people who were as relentless as slow dripping water. They dripped, and dripped, and dripped. No flash, no bang or thunder. No. It was a technique that was as simple as it was devastating. Very few could pull it off because they couldn't keep their tempers. It was too hard to remain perfectly indifferent, to outlast the one being tortured.  _He won't beat me, he's just a kid for Allah's sake._

"Who sent you?" Raza demanded.

All he got for the question was a second cut. This one a neat circle around his ankle. He gritted his teeth against the pain. Though the knife was obscenely sharp, it still hurt more than the first cut due to the thinness of the skin. He felt the blade whisper over his ankle bone.  _What the hell is he doing?_  Torture wasn't a foreign concept to Raza, and he'd done his fair share over the years, but he'd never done anything like this. Usually, he preferred bone breaking, starting with fingers and toes and working his way up. It was brutal, but efficient. Three cuts later, and he learned he was in the hands of an expert.

The boy's expression never changed as he carved a second ring around Raza's leg below the knee. The third cut paralleled the first, leaving about an inch of space between.

"Who are the leaders of your organization?"

"Give up. I'll never break for a wald alkelb." His words were a bit tight from the pain, but nowhere near the amount of agony he experienced a second later.

IX didn't use the knife this time. Leaning over the leg, he delicately slipped his fingernails beneath the corners of the long strip of cut flesh that ran along Raza's shin. Chipped jade eyes locked on Raza's while the first millimeter of skin came free. There were no words for the agony of being skinned alive. His screams echoed around them when IX pealed the long strip free. It took five nightmarish minutes for him to get the sheet of skin free without tearing the delicate tissue. IX arraigned the skin on a flat stone where Raza could see it while he waited for the screaming to choke off into whimpers.

He glowered at IX, trembles of agony still wracked him, but he didn't see the expected gloating look. The youth looked as unfazed as he had when Raza first woke. It made no logical sense. How had a boy as young as this learned such control? His questions had no answers, and were forgotten when the now dreaded words were asked again.

"Who are the leaders of your organization?"

This time, Raza had no witty reply. Brilliant splashes of crimson painted the sand beneath him, and he began to hope that shock would set in before he broke. Raza never thought that a child would be able to do this to him, but he knew better than most that any man could be broken. All it took was time, and a cruel hand. Out here, they had all the time the ghaben needed to get the job done.

Another inch wide strip of skin was removed, and another, and another. It took nine full swaths to fully skin his leg from knee to ankle. Horror clawed through Raza's chest when IX placed his hand almost gently onto the exposed flesh and he felt  _something_. It was like hot oil oozing through the raw meat of him and his throat was almost destroyed by the screams.

When the agony died down enough for his brain to function, Raza glanced down. He promptly turned and threw up. The once raw flesh was now blackened by the unseen force of the boy. It cauterized the wounds, and created a new level of pain he couldn't stand against.

A desperate whine escaped his torn throat when IX's small knife slowly cut the material away from his upper leg.

"Who are the leaders of your organization?"

"Please…" Raza choked, his will splintering under the strain of IX's  _interrogation_  style.

Another delicate cut, this one formed a ring around his upper thigh. Even though he couldn't feel the whisper of the blade through his flesh over the roaring agony in his lower leg, it was enough. Before the question could be asked again he broke. Two hours later, IX cleaned his knife and stood.

The body hung from the restraints, coated in drying sweat, vomit, and blood. A symbol had been expertly carved into the man's forehead. It was a skull with the tentacles of an octopus below it. The mark wouldn't mean anything to the average observer, but IX was certain that it would sow seeds of confusion and hate into the Ten Rings.

It wouldn't due for Hydra and the Ten Rings to merge, and if he could set the two organizations against one another, all the better.

* * *

IX walked unnoticed through the building. After reaching America, he learned Stark had gone in an unexpected direction. After returning home, he shut down his weapons manufacturing business instead of exploiting and furthering the new weapon he'd crafted in the desert. Now Stark Industries was in a state of flux, where Stane and Stark vied for control.

Even though the political climate of the corporation was a mess, IX's orders hadn't changed. Stark was a problem, but one that wasn't part of IX's mission. Someone else would have to guide the playboy back to the proper path. No, his problem was Stane. Even though the man was interested in producing weaponry, his double dealing made him more of a threat than Stark.

Stepping into the office, IX's power kept him hidden up until one of his blades slammed into one pudgy hand, pinning it to the table. Before the first scream could rip from the large man's throat, IX's slender arm wrapped around his neck and cut off his air. Once the muffled sounds died down to whimpers, IX removed his hand. "Be still. Do not scream." IX plucked a zip drive from his pocket and inserted it into the computer.

"Y-you won't get away with this." Stane growled, the unpinned hand darted up, holding the paralyzing devise. Before he could trigger it, IX snatched it out of his grip. A brief search of the man's pockets revealed the earplugs that went with the contraption. Setting them aside, IX returned to his task. It didn't take him long to find the information he needed and down load it.

"Is that everything about Stark's contraption and your adaptations?"

"Fuck you." Spittle flew from Stane's trembling lips from the power of his exclamation. A second blade snaked out and cut off the man's little finger. He nearly fainted in shock, but when IX poised the knife to cleave off another, he stumbled over his words in his haste to tell IX what he wanted to know. Though no expression crossed IX's face, he couldn't help but feel mildly disgusted with how easily the man broke. Then again, he was just a civilian. They were weak creatures, untrained and undisciplined.

Once the information was secure, he unleashed a virus on the system to destroy it. They couldn't stop Stark from innovating and perfecting the technology, but they could get it off the corporation's systems in case someone else got the idea to sell it.

"Sir, it appears Stane developed an inferior model of Stark's weapon that runs primarily on Gama radiation. There are a number of scientists involved in the project, orders?"

Even in agony, Obadiah's pride flared. "Inferior! My work is not inferior to that wretched boy's," he snarled. To his disgust, the tiny terrorist ignored him.

_IX, when you've finished with Stane, eliminate any associates who were part of this project and bring the machine to Headquarters. Place it in Lab Five._

"Yes, sir."

Turning, he drove his fist into Stane's throat. Delicate bones shattered. Stane wheezed, trying to breath around his destroyed larynx before death caught him in its icy talons.

IX ignored the spectacle in favor of finishing his task. He dipped a fingertip in the small pool of blood and turned to the wall behind the desk. With swift strokes, he painted each of the symbols representing The Ten Rings.

After adding the final touch to the last symbol, he turned and collected the small devise and ear buds. He was half way around the desk when the office door opened.

Tony blinked in confusion when he saw Stane slumped over the desk. At first, he didn't notice the short male beside the desk, or the bloody mural behind the body.

"Obadiah?" Even though they'd been having problems, Tony still cared about the older man and his first thought was that he'd had a heart attack. He was half way across the room when IX moved. A booted foot crashed into Tony's side, sending the billionaire sprawling. Pain exploded in his chest and for a minute all he could do was lay there and try to breath around it. Then his breath came to a halt for the second time when a weight settled on his chest and a blade teased his Adams apple.

"Sir, Stark arrived before I could leave. Orders?"

Tony's eyes widened in horror when he saw the Ten Rings symbol and recognized the man pinning him to the ground. So he hadn't been a dream then.

"Understood."

"What are you-" The words were cut off when IX brought the small devise up and incapacitated the billionaire. He didn't give Tony a second glance as he walked away.

Tony's frozen eyes stared at the bloody markings on the wall. He'd seen it in Afghanistan along with the green-eyed stranger.

* * *

"Open," IX whispered as he held his hand against the last door. Seconds ticked down in the back of his mind as he stepped into the lab. 13 minutes, 29 seconds. He pulled his gun without breaking stride. Two of the scientists fell before the rest realized there was a stranger among them.

A woman's scream was cut off by the muffled pop of the silenced gun, and a pudgy man in a white lab coat turned to run, only to pitch forward, a neat hole in his back. IX stepped over one of the corpses and knelt to stare at the trembling young man crouched under a table covered in bits of machinery. "P-please…" tears slid down soft hairless cheeks, and the sharp stink of urine filled the air between them.

"Was there anyone else working on this project? Anyone who isn't here?"

Matt latched onto the soft words. They sounded so calm, so reasonable. His shaky gaze darted over to Beth and he choked on a sob. "Look at me." Swallowing hard, his eyes snapped back to the strange man's.  _So green_  he thought hysterically, hoping this was all just a crazy dream brought on by stress. Stane had them working crazy hours trying to recreate the arch reactor, and he wasn't happy with their lack of results.  _Of course, just stress. There's no way a crazy teenager walked into one of the most secure labs in the country and shot everyone. Stane would never let that happen. No way._

Pain cracked across the side of his face, jerking Matt out of his frantic thoughts. "Pay attention." Suddenly the gun was an inch from his left eye. The hole looked massive, and he squeaked, terror nearly driving him out of his mind. "I won't ask again," the calm voice made the threat all the more horrible.

"Uh…I…t-the we, we all are working hard!" He blurted out, trying to remember what the hell the crazy teen wanted.

"Was anyone else working on this project?"

"N-no…wait, I mean…yes. Yes! Marcus was s-sick, or or his kid was, or something."

"Marcus who"

"Dan M-Marcus. The rest of us were working around the clock t-to figure out how to p-power the suit." Matt choked out, hoping that security would be here soon.  _They were coming, weren't they? Someone had to come!_

His frantic thoughts ended in a blaze of agonizing light and a puff of smoke. Blood and thick oatmeal like matter splattered the tile as the body fell. Standing, IX sheathed the gun before heading to the nearest computer. It only took a few seconds to slip into the personnel files and find the name and address he was looking for.

4 minutes, 11 seconds.

IX glanced at the table before dismissing the scattered projects. It was obvious that the scientists were at a dead end before he'd arrived, and he didn't have time to destroy their failed efforts.

It didn't take him long to find Stane's reinterpretation of Stark's suit. The monstrosity was far larger than the original, and he knew that it was too large for him to jump with.

"Sir, I have disposed of the scientists, but am unable to relocate the suit. It is too large. Orders?"

"If the suit can't be retrieved, destroy it."

"Yes, Sir."

Moving with the nimble grace of a squirrel, IX climbed the humanoid machine. When he got to the open chest, he slid into the contraption. Time trickled away, and he heard the loud whoop of alarms signaling that his fifteen minutes were up. Still his fingers pulled at wires, with a grunt he jerked a second panel opened and he forced the machine on. He closed his eyes and vanished just as the Gama core overpowered, erupting in an inferno of radiated power that turned the suit to slag in seconds.

The blast was powerful enough to destroy the machine and half the lab, but not enough to bring the whole building down. He couldn't risk killing Stark by mistake.

* * *

Exhaustion hung from him like chains of lead, desperately trying to pull him to the ground, but Tony refused to give in. He'd finally gotten away from the assorted flavors of police and FBI whose interrogation techniques were only a little less severe than the terrorists. And he wasn't even the bad guy!

Still, their questions were telling. He hated entertaining the idea that Obadiah had been going around behind his back, but the evidence was irrefutable. Bad enough that the man had been selling his weapons to the enemy, but worse was the way the FBI looked at him, as though he'd been in on it. He choked back the anger that tried to overwhelm him when he remembered how that Smith bastard casually threw the idea out that he'd been working with the bloody terrorists who'd kidnapped him.

They finally let him go, but he still felt like he'd been picked over by vultures. Rubbing at his tired eyes, Tony sat forward and began typing. He enhanced the video and stared at the blank faced teen walking casually through the halls of his building. No one even questioned the kid, it was absurd.

Swallowing hard, he played the video forward and watched Obadiah's death. He hated how the man betrayed him, but no one deserved to die like that.

Chocolate eyes narrowed as they studied the footage. Something wasn't adding up, but he couldn't figure out what. Fingers flying, he fought to unravel the viruses that had been implanted in the buildings systems. They were just a smoke screen, and he wouldn't rest until he knew everything the stranger downloaded. Finally, he was able to unscramble the data enough to get an idea. Obadiah's work was crude, true, but the suit he'd designed would still be a frightening force in the hands of a group of terrorists.

Still… "Why didn't you steal the Jerico?" He growled. It didn't make sense. Why take incomplete technology for a weapon that would cost a ridiculous amount of money to recreate, and not steal the data on the weapon he'd been kidnapped to reproduce? The agent could have easily accessed the information, so why did he just go after the suit? More importantly, why did he attempt to wipe the data afterwards? He'd even gone so far as to kill the scientists and destroy the only working prototype.

It just didn't feel right, and Tony couldn't help but remember those strange eyes looking down at him in the cave. Cold eyes, the eyes of a killer.

Why had his life been spared? That was the heart of the matter, Tony knew it. If the man was really after his suit, why not kidnap him again? If he wanted the technology destroyed, why not kill him? They had to know that Tony would continue working on it, so why hadn't he been terminated along with the other scientists?

" _Sir, Stark arrived before I could leave. Orders?"_

"Who are you? And who are you working for?" Stark muttered, staring at a close up image of the man's face.

* * *

"Hush baby," Dan said, his hand rubbed small circles over the little girl's back. Heat baked into his chest from where he held her, and he wished the fever would break. At least her sobs had tapered down to sniffles and the latest bout of vomiting was over. He had no idea how such a tiny girl could throw up so much. It was as amazing as it was disgusting, and he'd been the one who had to clean it all up.

Sarah was on the couch, sleeping fitfully. The flu had spared him, but for some reason it hit both of them hard this year. If she hadn't been feeling so awful, he would have stayed at work, but even Stane's threats couldn't keep him there when he heard the misery in her voice and Gale screaming in the background. "That's it sweetheart, rest now. Daddy's got you."

She'd just dozed off when the doorbell rang, startling her into another round of congested sobbing. "Damn it," he hissed under his breath. If it was the neighbor again, he'd slam the door in the woman's face. Yes, she was just trying to be helpful, but he didn't need the nosy creature checking in on him every hour. Hell, they could drown a cat in the amount of chicken soup she'd dropped off that morning. Not that either of the girls had been able to keep more than a bite or two down.

Jerking the door open, he growled "Yes?" Irritation instantly morphed into confusion when he saw a kid standing on his door step. "Can I help you?"

"Are you Dan Marcus?"

"Yes. What's this abo-" The bullet took him between the eyes before his mind could register the gun. He crumpled, body reflexively clutching at the now screaming child as they fell together in a heap.

"DAN?" A shrill voice called from the living room, mingling with the girl's wailing. IX turned, vanishing before the woman made it to the door.

* * *

IX took one step out of the shadowed corner of their assigned room before he was swept up in X's crushing grip. Closing his eyes, he tolerated the ten minute inspection of his person before he gave the feral a hard shove. "Enough, I have to complete my report."

Teeth bit into his shoulder instead of releasing him. Without his consent, his body relaxed into the punishing touch. He could have pulled a knife, but waited for the ritual to be complete. X's tongue slowly traced the bite marks, tasting his blood and reasserting their bond. Closing his eyes, IX was surprised when he realized he'd missed this. Missed the crushing embrace, the sharp bites, and even X's overbearing protectiveness. Though he'd never admit it out loud, he'd missed sleeping with the other man. Even when he'd had a fire, he hadn't felt warm enough when he'd laid down to rest.

Now X's warmth surrounded him again, soft tongue already soothing the pain of the bite away and he wanted to curl up in the familiar arms and sleep.  _No, the mission is not complete._

"Release me." This time X reluctantly obeyed.

He pulled his shirt up, covering the vivid bite mark before he turned and left to make his report.

* * *

Wald alkelb = son of a bastard


	16. Lessons Learned the Hard Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so unlike in the movies, Logan left Vietnam when Victor tried to rape the girl. Because of that, he wasn't there for the execution, and wasn't recruited. The lack of Logan means that the X-Team of Stryker's never broke up because Logan wasn't there to pressure the others about their bad behavior. So the team stayed together for the years between Victor joining and when Logan would have been found and turned into a weapon later (per the movies).
> 
> Instead, I had Victor leak the info about Logan's mutation to Stryker, who passed it along to the Director…etc. They had a heck of a time capturing Logan, so he didn't get his updates until years later. What I did was move the timelines from when X was created forward. I lessened the gap between the Wolverine movie, and the first X-men movie. IX and X will stay with Stryker's team for roughly four years until we reach the events in the X-men movies.
> 
> I should probably have said this from the start, but this is wildly AU. When my characters interact with the worlds/timelines, things are going to change. People who died might live, people who lived might die…etc. From these changes, the arcs of the story will differ. Sometimes just a bit, and other times completely.
> 
> Clear as mud yet? Anyway, if that totally confused anyone or if there are any questions about my crazy timelines, review or IM me and I'll try to clear it up. Or I'll cover my ears and sing LA LA LA at the top of my lungs. We'll see.

"Sometimes you had to hurt yourself - and badly - to find out it could be better to lie back in the tall weeds and procrastinate." – Stephen King,  _The Stand_

* * *

Tony's fingers flew in time with the snarling guitar riffs of AC/DC's Back in Black, but even the pounding of the drums couldn't drown out the growing pain in his skull.  _Just a little longer_ , he promised, even as his exhausted eyes blurred, turning the multiple screens into colorful smudges. It felt like he was back in the desert. His eyes were so dry, Tony whimpered as he rubbed at them.

Sleep couldn't be put off much longer, but he fought it with the single minded intensity of a man who could see a tiny speck of land after being cast adrift in the ocean. "One more link. There's gotta be something here. He didn't spring fully formed off the ass of some bureaucrat." Obsessing over the green eyed man, and his newest updates for the Iron Man suit were all that kept the nightmares at bay. Though Tony wouldn't admit it to anyone, he knew his ordeal had impacted him more than he let on. It wasn't so bad when he was awake, but once sleep came that was it. He was there again, being tortured, watching helplessly as Yinsen died.

Weakness. Tony had been weak, and people died because of it. The soldiers died, innocent villagers died, hell even the enemy died. Somehow, he'd made it out, and he swore to himself that he'd never be so helpless again. But then Green-eyes came. Came and turned his whole world on its head. Tony didn't want to believe that Obadiah was the one who'd betrayed him, but the proof they'd found after the stranger killed him and destroyed the inferior prototype of his suit was irrefutable.

"You took it from me," Tony growled at the close up image of the green eyed man. No, he wouldn't have killed Stane for what he'd done, but Tony deserved his revenge for that betrayal. More importantly, he deserved an explanation.

Flicking his wrist, he dismissed the image along with his own fatigue before he began hacking deeper into yet another shady government organization. It hadn't taken much digging to realize that Green-eyes wasn't with the Ten Rings, in spite of his  _artistic_ leavings. There was no logical reason for him to come to America and kill Stane if that were the case. Not when Stane had been the one providing his weapons to the group.

No, the elaborate set up smacked of a hit. The skill of the assassin, the words he spoke, and his lack of accent all pointed towards black ops. The only question remained was for whom? What government had loosed the slender dagger at Stane, and permitted it to pass him by? There were too many questions, but Tony had all night and the mystery was the perfect way to keep his mind away from the cold bed and the nightmares waiting for him.

* * *

The light knock was loud enough to earn a muffled, "come in." IX opened the door, his eyes sweeping over the room before locking on the man behind the desk.

"Take a seat." Stryker gave a chilly smile as he motioned towards the stiff backed wooden chair in front of his desk. IX moved silently across the room and sat without a word.  _That's refreshing, at least he doesn't talk back like that idiot Wilson_ , he thought. So far, he was pleased with the pair, even if he knew they were there to watch and judge him as much as his team. IX was the perfect example of what mutant experimentation should be. He was obedient, silent, and willing to do whatever his commanding officer demanded of him.

As far as Stryker could tell, there was nothing the short male would balk at. Today he planned to test that. The scientists who responsible for disposing of the test subjects after their usefulness was at an end had a modicum of dignity and refused to permit the creatures to suffer needlessly. One factor of said suffering was forcing the others to watch while their fellows were killed. He didn't understand why the fools drew the line there, when they were willing to do invasive operations, experiments, and terminate the mutants after they'd lost interest in the subjects. Still, they were, and he knew they would be happy when they were told that they no longer had to perform the duty. If they weren't needed to craft the future of living weapons, Stryker would have disposed of the lot of them long before now. Unfortunately, it was difficult to find doctors with the proper skill set and the willingness to do less than ethical work. It made the ones he found regrettably interposable.

"One of your duties, starting today, is to terminate test subjects who have outlived their usefulness. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

Stryker smiled, how he loved IX's response. Always short, and above all, respectful.  _That's how they should all respond to me, and once I've successful created my own brand of weapons, they will_. That was a project for a later date. They were making progress, but so far they had only been able to integrate one extra mutation into another host without the body overloading. The project still had a lot of groundwork before he could implement Weapon XI.

"Very good. They are to be eliminated in their cages where the other subjects can watch. You will terminate subject 52 when you leave here."

"Yes, sir. What condition should be body be in?" IX asked, his mind already turning to the subject in question, and the best way to kill him.

"The scientists have no further need of it, dispose of it how you will."

IX stood and saluted before leaving the room. It didn't take him long to reach the seemingly endless rows of cages.

"Traitor!"

"Please, let us out."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Help us!"

"Sell out. You're nothing but a damned pet freak for those bastards."

He ignored the endless insults, pleas, and curses. It was like that any time he passed through here, and it had as little effect on him now as it did the first time he heard them. They all knew he helped capture mutants, and worse. But now they would learn to fear him even more. IX knew what Stryker wanted. It was the same tactic he'd used on the team when he and X first joined. By killing one of their own in front of them, he was setting himself up as the boogie man. It would reduce the likelihood of attempted escapes, and would increase their willingness to obey the other guards as well as the scientists.

Psychologically, they would feel the intense need not to have his attention fall on them. That, and the rest of the staff would be able to hold him like a sword above their necks. It was a simple trick, but an effective one.

IX stopped in front of the glass cage. The mutant behind the glass vanished, turning into a violent torrent of air before returning to human form and glaring. His lips moved, but he couldn't be heard in his air tight cage. IX could make out the shape of the curses on his lips and lifted a hand to rest it palm up on the cold surface.

Focusing, he let his power lick at the glass long enough to create a hole roughly the size of a quarter. The trapped mutant's eyes widened in shock when he realized what IX did before he instantly transformed, ready to escape. Expecting the move, IX let a tiny flame flicker through the opening.

The small enclosure was instantly engulfed. Flames bloomed in the air, feeding on the extra oxygen created whenever the mutant transformed. Then mindless panic kicked in, and the boy attempted to change back. Nightmarish screams filled the room as the blackened form writhed on the floor. His inhuman shrieks were echoed by the others who were forced to watch. IX ignored them all. A flick of thought popped the lock on the door and IX stepped into the cell. His power reached out, concentrating the flames. With a final haunting scream, the twitching, blackened thing fell silent. After a few minutes, the husk collapsed in on itself, leaving a pile of oily ash on the floor. Turning away, IX stepped out into a wall of silence. All eyes locked on him, but none of the caged mutants dared move. Instead the watched him the same way a bunch of meerkats watching a cobra.

* * *

"So I must be getting close then," Tony said in way of greeting. Nick stood outside the door and studied the billionaire while waiting to be invited over the threshold. The dark circles under his eyes and obvious weight loss didn't please him, but Nick knew it was to be expected. Tony wasn't the sort to seek out professional help, and the man wouldn't even begin to admit he had a problem until after he'd had a complete nervous break down.  _Hopefully he'll live long enough to have a nervous break down. If he keeps down this path, that's not likely to happen,_  Nick thought.

"Are you going to stand there all day staring, or are you going let me in?" Nick demanded. His patented glare had no noticeable effect. He wouldn't have come if he thought Colson could make it through the door, but Nick knew how prideful this prospect was. He knew there was no way he'd allow someone less than the top to enter his domain unchallenged. Even now, he wasn't sure if he'd make it through the door or not. Still, he had to try before the idiot ended up smeared all over his penthouse office.

Grumbling under his breath about pushy secret agents, Tony stepped aside and let the large black man through. Nick looked the room over and gave a dark smirk. "You've done well for yourself, now let's hope you can keep it."

"Is that a threat?"

"Not at all. I'm not here to threaten you Mr. Stark. In fact, I have a vested interest in your continued existence."

Tony snorted in disbelief. "Right. So you're saying you aren't here to politely threaten to break my neck if I don't stop digging for bones?"

"Indeed. I'm not going to break your neck. I want you to live and work for me one day. The only way that works out in my favor is if you continue living,"

"First, I don't wanna join your super-secret boy band. Second, why should I believe you?" Tony demanded.

"I'm here aren't I? You didn't get a bullet between the eyes from some sharp shooter. It wasn't the one you are seeking who showed up on your doorstep. However, if you don't stop snooping, those things might come next."

"So he is one of yours?"

"No. Call it...professional curtesy from one organization to another. My interest in you is known in certain circles, and your death would be inconvenient for me. I'm sure you've already figured out that the man who let you live wasn't a terrorist?"

"No shit."

"I'm not going to tell you who he's working for, but I will give you a small taste of what you have to look forward to if you don't drop it." Nick held out a folder.

Tony was tempted to ignore it, to ignore everything. Oh, he knew what he was doing was no more or less than poking a sleeping dragon. But he couldn't help his curiosity. Finally, when it was clear Fury wouldn't take no for an answer, he snatched the file and opened it.

Inside were dozens of glossy high-resolution photographs. His stomach did a slow forward roll when he recognized Raza, and the maimed limb that had once been his leg. "Your boy did this shortly after Stane left Afghanistan. We also believe he is responsible for the deaths of ninety percent of the upper echelon of the Ten Rings. The remnants are now at war with another terrorist organization. It was neatly done, that." Tony thought he heard a bit of admiration in the older man's voice and cringed.

There was no way Tony would have lifted a finger to save Raza's life, but no matter how much he wanted the bastard dead, he couldn't condone what the pictures showed. "Dear God, are those strips of skin on the rock next to him?"

"Indeed. It appears that his leg was skinned, one strip at a time. Are you beginning to understand? These are not the sort of people you want to decide that you've become more of a liability than a potential asset. You're brilliant, and no one can deny your weapons are stunning, but even that won't save you if you make yourself too much of a threat. I want you for my Avengers initiative, but I can't go to war to protect you from your own stupidity. Have I made myself clear?"

Tony swallowed, still flipping through the horrible pictures. "Yeah, alright. Fine, I get it. Now get out. I don't belong to you or anyone else, so get that thought out of your head and go back to playing war games with your buddies." He shoved the folder back into Nick's hands and shoved him out the door.

Leaning against it, he rubbed his face and wondered what the hell he'd gotten himself into.

* * *

"Come. It's time to train."

Wade leaned a little to the left so he could see the TV around the short little bug that dared to interrupt his veg time. To his disgust, IX shifted with him to continue blocking the screen. In response, he threw a handful of popcorn at the assassin.

"Get up."

"No, I don't think so little fly, so go find someone else to buzz around, mkay? I'm busy," he said before sticking his tongue out.

Instead of getting angry, like the mouthy mutant hoped - even though nothing he'd said or done so far managed to get any sort of reaction out of the little brat - IX just stared at him. "It is time to train. Get up or I will attack you here and you will not have the benefit of your swords to defend yourself."

Wade might have tested that if he hadn't watched the little prick fight X and knew how deadly he could be. There was no doubt that IX was fully armed even if a casual glance didn't show obvious weapons. If he tried to take IX on without a weapon there was a great chance he'd spend the rest of the weekend tied up to one of Dr. Weird's tables in the infirmary and that wasn't a place he wanted to be.

"Fine," he hissed, before standing up to follow the little monster out.

The training room was large, and empty. Nothing fancy, which always irritated Wade. Why couldn't they have something more than a big open cement room to beat each other up in? Where were the wall length mirrors, the padded blue mats, hell he'd have been happy with a few obstacles.

He was violently torn from his thoughts when IX turned and slammed a foot into his chest, sending him crashing to the ground. "Hey! What the fuck dude? I wasn't ready yet. That doesn't count." He scrambled back to his feet, unable to believe he'd fallen for such a cheap shot.

"We're here to train. An enemy will not wait for you to be prepared before he attacks," was the only response IX gave before he launched into another attack. Even with his swords, Wade found it difficult to keep the tiny demon at bay. It was infuriating to see his blades, fast enough to stop bullets, being turned aside by daggers of all things. IX seemed to be mocking him while they danced. The clash of metal became the music, and the soft grunt of exertion when a hit got through kept the strange beat. He had no idea how the shorter mutant was able to keep up with his speed, and it galled him that he was sporting more cuts as the dance continued. Trying to cut IX was like trying to stab water. He seemed to flow around the sharp metal, his own blades came up not to block but to redirect with a delicate hiss of steal licking off of steal. The style wasn't one he'd ever seen before, and it was bloody effective.

"You rely too much on your speed," IX's dead voice jolted him out of his thoughts, and the hesitation was enough. In a move too fast to follow, IX's leg lashed out to tangle in between his as a fist slammed into his solar plexus. With a pained grunt, he fell, and IX moved with him, bringing his blood stained dagger to rest against Wade's throat.

Gritting his teeth, he forced the hated words out. "I yield." Like waking from a nightmare, IX was gone, leaving him on his back to contemplate how he'd lost yet again to a kid whose head barely reached his shoulder. "I'm going to find out who thought these training sessions were a good idea and spike their drink with laxatives," he moaned, rolling over onto his stomach so he could push up onto his feet. At least he wasn't the only one who had to suffer the indignity of losing to a pintsized freak. He knew IX trained with Creed, Wraith, Dukes, and Zero too.

"Wonder why Chris gets a pass. That's so not fair." Then again, if he weren't in so much pain he'd reluctantly agree that the technopath wasn't much of a fighter. Nope, he wouldn't last five seconds in a fight with IX, or anyone else for that matter. "Ha, I bet a fourth grader could take him down." Once he finished his little pity party, Wade got up and took a shower before patching up a few of the deeper cuts that refused to stop bleeding.

Finally able to return to his shows, he found Fred sitting in his spot with the remote in hand and HIS bowl of now empty popcorn! "Damn it Dukes, I had it first."

"Move your meat, lose your seat," the large man grunted while fishing the last bits of popcorn out of the bowl to snarf them.

* * *

The air exploded out of him when X pounced. IX could have dodged the attack, but it would only prolong the inevitable. There were times when IX thought about how much easier life would have been if he hadn't been partnered with a Feral. Yes, they worked well together, but even that couldn't make up for the pure aggravation of being treated like some kind of kitten with an over protective mother cat.

Every scratch was exposed and thoroughly licked. If he'd been anyone else, he might have felt disgusted by the strange attention, but IX simply tolerated the behavior with the air of someone who was used to such things.

Once all of the minor wounds were explored, X picked his tiny mate up and carried him to the bed in their room. It had become a trend after the pair began training with the rest of the team. Stryker believed that it would help build teamwork if they fought each other, as well as letting them both learn the strengths and weaknesses of the rest of the team in a controlled manner. X enjoyed the fights, even though he wasn't allowed to go all out, it still felt good to pit his skill against the rest. What he didn't care for was IX getting hurt, even if the wounds were superficial. So far, the only one able to defeat IX in any battle was X, which satisfied the feral on multiple levels. Not only was he strong enough to force his mate to yield, but he was the only one who could do so.

Growling under his breath, he arraigned the smaller male against his chest. IX didn't fight it. Instead he stretched out, letting his head tuck perfectly under X's chin. While he would have preferred sleeping in his own bed, he'd become accustomed to using the large mutant as his mattress, and found the heavy beat of X's heart comfortable as he drifted off to sleep.

Hours later, IX woke and nearly sank his dagger into X's chest before he realized that the sharp pain in his neck was X's teeth. He wasn't used to being bit in the throat, nor of being gnawed on in the middle of the night. Large hands gripped his hips, and to IX confusion, X's body rose up to grind against his. He hissed under his breath when something jabbed him in the stomach. Again his makeshift bed bucked beneath him, and the teeth paired with the hands held him in place. Not sure what was going on, but sensing no malice in the strange attack, IX kept still.

After a few more bucking thrusts, X's body went taunt. Goosebumps erupted down his back when the larger man snarled, the low sound thrumming down his spine from the mouth still latched on his throat. Then, all at once, X went lip. Reaching up, IX explored the bite mark before he noticed the growing damp spot on his lower stomach. His fingers dipped down to explore the wetness. Bringing them up, he sniffed, expecting the sharp stink of urine, but instead encountered an altogether different odor. The liquid was thicker than water, slick between his fingers. Closing his eyes, he focused and the sticky mess between them vanished.

Once the mess was gone, IX's thoughts turned to his internal dictionary in search of answers. Before long he found what he was looking for: Ejaculation - the action of ejecting semen from the body. Not certain what would have brought X to such a climax, IX decided it was best to simply ignore the matter entirely. Closing his eyes, he let sleep take him again.

* * *

"Mission: Infiltrate Stark's home and persuade him to give up his search for information pertaining to the Weapon IX program." The voice woke him from sleep, familiar though one he hadn't heard since he'd been placed on Stryker's team.

"Yes, sir," he replied before detangling himself from X's arms. A soft grumbling growl met his movements, but IX ignored it in favor of duty.

"Remain here, follow Stryker's orders."

X's long arm shot out in an attempt to capture him before he could escape, but IX dodged nimbly away. Instead he swatted the groping hand for good measure before he turned and dressed.

One whisky colored eye opened to glare at his tiny mate, but he stayed curled in the warmth of the bed surrounded by the intoxicating scent of IX. Licking his lips, he tasted the sweet tang of blood and blinked. Another long look at IX revealed the perfect bite mark on the milky column of his throat and he couldn't suppress the pained groan as his body hardened with want. Before he could act on the growing need, IX vanished, leaving him alone again.

That was one of the things he hated most about their position here. It seemed like every time he turned around IX was off on a mission that didn't involve him. Before they left the Hive, they worked together almost every day. Now he was lucky if he saw IX for more than meal times and when they went to sleep. Growling, he closed his eyes and ignored the pain in his lower region, knowing that even if IX was here he'd go unsatisfied.

* * *

The air in the small room that Chris had claimed as his office seemed to crackle with electricity. Every inch of the place was covered in random gadgets, mechanical toys, lightbulbs, and other strange contraptions. In the center of the chaos, Chris sat at his desk which nearly bowed under the weight of multiple monitors and a computer system that would make any hacker weep with envy.

It made IX flesh crawl, and he felt the illogical urge to pulse his power, destroying the flow of electricity in the room. He resisted the impulse, gritted his teeth, and forced his power to remain beneath his skin where it could do no harm.

"Bradley." The technopath jumped when IX dull monotone whispered through the room. Lightbulbs flared brighter in response to his fright, before returning to a mellow glow.

"Y-yes? Did you need something?" He hated how uncomfortable IX made him feel and hoped the other mutant wouldn't stay long.

IX remained in the doorway. "I need you to hack into the Stark estate and disable the buildings defenses and AI."

"Wow, you're not asking for much are you?" Chris whistled. It would probably be easier to slip into the Pentagon's systems, truth be told. Well, perhaps for most hackers, but they didn't have Chris's talents, nor his intuitive skill when it came to anything that ran on electricity.

"Can you do it?" IX was proficient when it came to computers, but his skills were nowhere near what would be needed to get into Stark's home unnoticed. While it was true he could break into the house, he didn't want to give the man any warning before he got things set up.

"Of course I can."

"Good. And while you're in the system..."

* * *

The soft chirp of his cell brought Tony out of his daze. "If you'll excuse me," the board members all stiffened in resentment when he stood and walked out. Even before he'd decided to take the company in a new direction, they'd hated him. Well, the feeling was mutual. While they loved the fact that he was even more brilliant than his father, they despised the idea that he had any say in how the company was run. In their minds, he should be kept locked up in the lap, creating wonderful and deadly toys while they dealt with the business end of things.

"Talk to me," Tony purred into the phone, glad to get away from that stuffy room full of idiots who couldn't see past the edge of their own check books.

"T-Tony?" Pepper's voice was like a bucket of ice water poured down his back. Fear screamed in that single word, and even though they'd been through a hell of a lot together, he'd never heard that note of raw panic before.

"Hey, are you alright? What's going on?"

"You need to come home." Before he could get anything else out of her, the line went dead. Spurred by her fear, he ran to the garage even as his fingers darted over the screen, contacting Jarvis. His anxiety spiked when the AI didn't respond.

Breaking more than a few traffic laws, he made it home in record time. At first glance, the house seemed fine, but when he entered, Jarvis didn't respond. Instinct drew him down to his lab, and he cursed the fact that all his Iron Man suits were down there.

Half way down the stairs he froze. Pepper was on her knees, and standing behind her was Green-eyes himself, a slender dagger resting lightly on Pepper's throat. His other hand was tangled in her wine red hair, keeping her head bent at an awkward angle that would let him slash her throat with the same ease a butcher used when slaughtering a lamb.

Holding up his hands to show he was unarmed, Tony eased down the stairs. "Look. It's me you want, let her go alright?" It was impossible to keep the fury out of his tone, but he refused to shout or do anything to cause the knife to slip.

"Mr. Stark, I've been sent to deliver a message. As of now, your intelligence outweighs the liability of allowing you to live. However, this woman has nothing of the sort protecting her."

"If you hurt her-"

"You will do nothing. If I kill her, she will be dead and you will not have saved her. But her life isn't the only thing I hold in my hands. You have few connections in this world, but the woman is one, and there are a handful of others I could kill that would wound your heart." He jerked Pepper's hair hard enough to make her whimper.

Rage twisted Tony's face as he took half a step forward, only to stop when a small bead of blood slid down Pepper's soft skin. "Don't."

"I want you to think about how important finding out my identity and position is to you when weighed against the lives you hold dear. Also, consider this. I am an expert on human anatomy. All we need from you is your mind. I could shatter your spine, leaving you paralyzed from the waist down, yet still perfectly capable of working." IX didn't smile, and his jaded eyes never left Tony's.

Fear, an emotion he'd become intimate with in Afghanistan, burned like a hot coal in his throat. He'd seen dead eyes like that before, and knew this was his final warning. If he didn't let it go, Green-eyes would pull his whole world down around his head. Pride choked him, demanding that he continue no matter the consequences. How could he even think about giving in to threats? But the fear he felt in his heart was mirrored in Pepper's eyes. How could he even think about doing anything that would get her killed when he could prevent it?

Shuddering, he closed his eyes and bowed his head. "I won't dig anymore, alright? Now let her go." The arch reactor seemed to pulse in his chest just as the room went dark.

When the lights flickered back on, he and Pepper were alone. With a sob. Pepper threw herself into his arms.

* * *

Victor's rumbling laugh drew IX's cold gaze. "Looks like my little brother finally got some," he grinned, flashing sharp fangs, though he made no move to approach. After being thrashed by both of them, his own instincts forced him to back down from further conflicts. Victor would never have believed that Jimmy would become the dominant feral, but such was life and he wasn't going to risk having his spine ripped out simply to learn the lesson a second time.

What he hated more than yielding to his baby brother, was yielding to this little bit of fluff who wasn't even a feral and shouldn't have been able to dominate him. That was still a bitter wound time hadn't touched. He didn't think he'd get over the fact that a kid who probably didn't weigh 100 pounds had bested him.

IX didn't reply, simply stared at him in that unnerving way of his and waited for him to explain himself. Victor reached up and touched his neck in the same place as the still vivid bite mark. Unconsciously, IX mimicked the move, tracing the mark. The team was used to X biting his shoulder, marking him as a belonging of sorts, but this mark was different.

Giving an indifferent shrug, IX said "X bit me in his sleep."

Victor laughed at the admission. "Really. Tell me, was that all he did?" It probably wasn't smart to taunt the younger male, but he couldn't help himself.

"No, he also ejaculated."

This time Victor sputtered in shock. He hadn't expected IX to state things so boldly, and hearing that dull monotone admit his brother had a wet dream and bit him was too funny for words.

"Well, if that isn't a sign I don't know what is. When are you finally going to let my brother fuck you?"

IX blinked. "Why would I do that?"

Now it was Victor's turn to blink. "You know he wants you, don't you?"

"I am his handler, it doesn't matter what he wants so long as he performs his duties and follows orders."

Raking his fingers through his hair, Victor couldn't help the small sliver of pity he felt for Jimmy. Of all the people he could have fallen for, he ended up lusting after a miniature robot with all the emotional range of a kiwi. "Most 'assets' don't regularly chew on their handlers."

"X is a feral. It is in his nature to mark me."

He was starting to get a headache. "Why do you think he wants to mark you?"

"For the same reason you attempted to mark me during our first confrontation. You are both ferals." IX replied. He'd never given much thought to why X had a habit of biting him, and had given up trying to dissuade the larger mutant from doing so. It was a pointless venture due to how fast X healed, and the fact that he couldn't beat X in a fight.

"I wanted to mark you out of spite because my idiot brother already claimed you as his."

IX shrugged indifferently, not caring one way or the other why the two men felt the need to try and bite him.

Growling, Victor gave up. It would be easier to teach a frog to fly than it was to get the idea of sex through IX's thick skull. "Whatever, if I was him I'd fuck you and get it over with, instead of waiting around for you to figure out what the hell is going on. He's going to be waiting for a long time." With that, he turned and left the confused weapon to ponder his strange declarations.

His fingers returned to the bite, tracing over the fresh wound while he remembered the scent of X's climax and how it wasn't a terrible odor.

* * *

Temptation was like a drug, one he was having a hell of a time saying no to. It had been three weeks since Green-eyes infiltrated his home, and Tony hadn't done a single search on the tiny assassin.

"I'm going to the store to get some real food, and when I get back you're going to come out of this room and cook something with me. You can't live off take out forever Tony," Pepper's voice drew him out of his thoughts as came over the loud speakers.

He rolled his eyes, not wanting to waist his time making something inedible when they could just order something. Still, keeping her happy was a good way to stay happy himself. "Fine, when you get back we'll destroy the kitchen together." A small smile curled his lips when her laughter drifted back to him. Perhaps it wouldn't be a bad thing to spend a little time with her.

Turning his attention to his newest suit idea, he folded the last bit of technology into place. A grin curled his lips when he looked over the neatly folded suitcase suit before his eyes drifted back to the consol.  _Maybe one little search wouldn't hurt_ , he thought as his fingers flew over the keyboard.

Instead of search results when he pressed enter, an alarm began blaring.  _BUILDING SELF DESTRUCT IN THREE…TWO…_

Realizing that attempting to override was impossible, his hand shot out to his newest suit. Pain flared in his chest when he slammed it against his flesh, and activated it just as the countdown ended. A guttural roar filled the world, and before he could begin evasive maneuvers, his home came crashing down around him.

A massive slab of stone slammed into him, crushing him to the ground and stealing his breath away. Terror burned his mind as the endless torrent of noise and pressure buried him alive. The weight of several tons of his former home pinned him down, and compromised the suit. It wasn't enough to break bone, but the left side had bowed inward enough to only allow the smallest of breaths.  _Don't panic, just breath, in and out. Shit! That bastard really tried to kill me._  Ice filled his chest when he realized how close he'd come to death, then he remembered Pepper. If she had been in the house…

She would have died. He would have died if he hadn't been working on the new suit. There wasn't enough time for him to get into his suit the old way, and Green-eyes wouldn't have known he could get into the new suit so quickly.  _I was supposed to die._ Even pinned, and hardly able to breath, Tony couldn't help but feel a hateful little bead of respect for the assassin. That program had been sneaky as hell to escape both his and Jarvis's notice. Having it activate if he did any further searches was beyond clever, and he couldn't stop pouting about the fact that he'd been so thoroughly defeated on his own turf.

Hours later, the rubble above him began to shift. It felt like forever before he finally caught a glimpse of the sky, and the ugliest face imaginable.

"Have you learned your lesson yet, or do I need to grab a chunk of rubble and bash that helmet of yours a few dozen more times?" Nick demanded as he palmed a rather jagged chunk of cement.

Panting, Tony groaned, "lesson…learned…"

"You know, for a genius, you're an idiot."

"Yeah…"


	17. Friendly Enemies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next couple of chapters will be taken from and inspired by Kristine Kathryn Rusch's and Dean Wesley Smith's book X-Men, as well as the first X-Men movie.

"It is easy enough to be friendly to one's friends. But to befriend the one who regards himself as your enemy is the quintessence of true religion. The other is mere business." - Mahatma Gandhi

* * *

A thick line of pain itched over his abdomen from hip to hip, but the sensation was distant, nothing like the memory of the blade hissing through his flesh, spilling his guts. His breath caught in the back of his throat, but he didn't open his eyes. Voices drew his attention away from the pleasant shock of being alive. After that bastard gutted him, he thought it was the end, but…perhaps it was just a short reprieve after all.

"I was able to patch him up, but I'm not gunna lie, there's no way in hell that wound doesn't get infected. I mean seriously, his insides were laying on the alley pavement. I did my best, but short of pouring bleach inside him, there's not much I can do."

"I see. Were you able to get enough samples?"

"Yeah, but it's better to keep them around for further testing. I have the samples, but without the living test subject, I won't be able to make any modifications if the samples aren't enough."

"Do what you can while it's still alive."

"Sure thing boss."

_Shit, where da hell am I?_

* * *

Wade fidgeted under the laser-like green gaze drilling holes into the side of his head, but refused to look up.  _Ignore him, and he'll go away. Sure he will, just like a bear won't maul you if you play dead. Right, who came up with that bit of bullshit anyway? Bears? I bet they started that rumor so stupid people would lay down and become an easy…_

His thoughts came to a screeching halt when he felt the glare go from mere intense interest, to death. Swallowing, Wade gave in to the inevitable and looked at the petite assassin. "What?" He barked, pretending like his left eye wasn't swollen shut, and his arm wasn't in a red and black cast that already bore the signatures of the rest of the team. IX didn't respond, but he continued staring in that creepy way of his, and Wade couldn't take it anymore.

"Look, it wasn't my fault! I mean sure it was a snatch and grab and yeah, it should have been a breeze, but fuck! Who the hell brings a stick to a sword fight anyway?" Heat scorched his cheeks at the admission. He'd almost lost to a guy with a freaking stick of all things. "I got him in the end!" That hadn't been a good thing though. By the time he'd managed to slip past the other mutant's guard, he'd been so furious that he hadn't checked the blow, and ended up doing a hell of a lot more damage then he'd meant to. Thankfully, Wraith was his partner, and they were able to teleport the injured mutant directly to the medical wing – spilled guts and all. "You should see the other guy."

IX continued his silent observation of the foolish swordsman, who blathered on about his supposed victory. He was intrigued by the story in spite of Wade's poor presentation. While he had little regard for the loud mouthed mutant, he couldn't deny the man was an expert at sword play. That another mutant was not only able to keep up with Wade's speed, but actually gain the upper hand at least twice with nothing more than a wooden staff was worth further investigation.

With a last lingering look, IX turned to track down Stryker.

* * *

Long fingers, suited to shuffling cards, traced over the warm metal band that had been snapped around his neck while he was still groggy from the anesthesia.

" _Now, your mutation is quite impressive, and hmmm, troublesome when it comes to containment. So I whipped up this nifty little device. Should your energy spike due to you charging up an object, well, it'll detonate the small bomb now located snuggly around your scrawny neck. It'll be best if you don't do that, Kay? I don't want to have to deal with the dissection of your headless corpse just yet."_

His nose wrinkled while he recalled the strangely cheerful, yet completely psychotic, doctor who'd put him back together and chained him to this place. Reaching down, he touched the skin of his stomach, and felt the heat growing there. Maybe it would be better to detonate the collar now, and save himself a little pain. No, it wasn't in his nature to give in, even when the odds were so far beyond hopeless it became a cosmic joke.

He was going to die in this wretched place, but he'd be damned if he would do their work for them.

"Ah, here he is. I had no idea you could heal." The voice of the good doctor would have jerked him into a sitting position if the wave of pure agony hadn't threatened to send him into unconsciousness. Remy turned his head and blinked in surprise when he saw the small green-eyed male next to the doctor.

Even though he'd only been awake for a few hours, he'd already heard stories about the Green-Eyed Demon, the Sellout, the Traitor, the Executioner. Somehow, he'd expected someone taller. Not this slender boy with dead eyes who'd come to heal instead of kill.

"Healing others is not my strong suit. I might kill him in error if I am distracted in any way."

"Can I watch?" Instead of being upset about the thought of his possible death, the doctor sounded like an excided child whose friend offered to show him a scab he was about to rip off.

"Yes."

The door clicked open, admitting the pair into his small cell. Without so much as a greeting, the short man stood over his bed and reached forward to lift the orange shirt. "What brings ya ta Gambit den? I can use a healin', true, but dat's not your usual is it, Mon Ami? Why heal Gambit?" Remy demanded, though his tone was hard, a small smile lingered on his lips. The smile faded a second later when he tried to get a read on the other mutant. One of his lesser known talents was the ability to charm almost anyone. Those who knew about it thought he projected a sense of trust onto others. It was one of the reasons he'd been able to fleece so many when it came to gabling.

It was more complex than that. While he was able to gain the trust of almost anyone – even some of the most powerful mutants around – it wasn't something he projected into them. Instead, when he saw someone, he was able to focus and see the depths of their hearts. He couldn't see into the mind like a telepath, nor into their moment by moment emotions, like an empathy. His gift was unique. He saw the emotional currents that formed a person. By examining those currents, he could reach out and dip a mental finger into the waters of their heart to shift the flow of emotion in his favor. It allowed him to nudge and manipulate the most important facets of a person, the emotions which were the underlying guide to all decision making.

When he reached for the green-eyed mutant, he felt nothing.  _Strange, shieldin' perhaps?_  His fingers itched to reach out and touch to make sure that he was real, and not some sort of hologram. The lack of emotion was as disturbing to him as the lack of scent would be to a feral.

"I have a proposition for you. I will heal your injuries, and should you survive the procedure, you will train me in the use of your chosen weapon." He replied, not a hint of a smile on his face to indicate that this might be some sort of strange jest.

Gambit touched the metal collar again as he studied the other male. "Ya be wantin' ta learn from Gambit how to fight wid a Bo? Well, get dis collar off me, and Gambit be teachin' ya all ya want ta know." He grinned, and somehow managed to give off an air of relaxed arrogance even while laying half dead on the bed.

"The collar will remain. If I do not heal you, you will die within the month. If I heal you, you will be permitted to leave this cage during training. You'll have your weapon, and may use it full force, without using your powers. If you attempt to escape, you will be cut down. If you refuse, you will be returned to the medical ward where you will be experimented on until you die of your wounds." The words were softly spoken, but the threat burned Remy's pride. He gritted his teeth, wanting to throw the offer back in his face, but knowing the consequences of doing so.

Closing his eyes, he forced a smile to his lips. "It seems I'll be acceptin' your kind offer Mon Ami." Remy expected the mutant to smile, or gloat, or something to indicate the win, but he didn't. Instead, he moved forward and tugged the shirt up to expose the white bandages wrapped around his lower stomach.

The doctor moved to his other side, and swiftly cut the bandages, exposing the wound. Staples held the flesh together, but the skin was already red, and hot to the touch, indicating infection. Cool, slender hands began exploring the wound, probing it, much to Remy's discomfort. "You must remain still. There will be pain but if you thrash about, I will kill you."

Remy forced himself to take a slow breath at the declaration. It didn't sound like a threat, more like a warning. Then again, it was hard to tell much from the monotone. He closed his eyes, biting his lip when he felt the heat spill into the damaged tissue. Pain licked a leisurely line over the wound, and it took everything he had not to try and move away. Fire settled in his guts, boiling him alive.

All of IX's attention was drawn into the terrible wound. He'd never attempted to heal someone who'd already been operated on before, and found the stitches to be an irritant. His power burned them away while he worked, but he had to take care not to destroy the flesh as well.  _I should have had the doctor remove them first_ , he mused but knew it was too late to stop now. The beam of tightly controlled power worked its magic, cleansing the body beneath his hands of the toxic buildup while it healed the deep slash.

Sweat slid unnoticed down his face and burned his eyes, but he didn't wipe it away. Pushing through the growing fatigue, he sealed the wound, leaving a thin white line behind. IX swayed, nearly collapsing onto the bed.

As quick as the pain came, it vanished. Remy blinked and frowned at the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. The light touch on his stomach grew heavier, and he realized the one who'd healed him was now using him to say upright. Unfocused green eyes caught his attention, and he was shocked to see how exhausted the other mutant was. Why save him if it was difficult to do so?

"Huh, so healing takes a lot out of you?" The doctor piped up.

Closing his eyes, IX forced himself to straighten. "Yes. My power is a destructive force. Bending it to healing is not an easy task and requires a far higher degree of control than any of my other techniques."

"Absolutely fascinating! Come along, I have a few experiments I'd like to run." Without looking back, they left. Remy could only gape after them in sheer astonishment.

* * *

Two days later, the strange healer, and soon to be student, appeared again. Remy frowned when he saw the menacing shadow following at the heels of the short male. While this mutant had emotions, they were primal things. Rage mingled with an animal's territoriality, and Remy couldn't understand where the rage was coming from. After all, the feral was on the other side of the bars. He was one of the keepers, instead of one of the kept, so why the fury?

He knew that it would be as impossible to manipulate the new male as it was the assassin, though for different reasons. The feral was too animalistic. His emotions were too sharp and focused to be nudged from their path the way normal peoples were.

Remy stood when the pair came to a halt in front of his cage. Hours of examination had shown no easy escape from the prison, and he wanted to get a better view of how the doors were operated. To his disgust, the small mutant simply rested his hand on the door and whispered "Open." It popped open like an obedient dog, allowing him to come face to face with the boy who'd saved his life for the first time since the healing.

With a bow, Remy offered a charming smile. "I be Remy. We weren't properly introduced da o'er day, who might ya be Mon Ami?"

IX studied the taller mutant, satisfied by his state of health. "I am IX, and this is X. Come along." With that, he turned and walked away, leaving his back exposed for attack. Not that Remy would be so foolish, not with hard whisky eyes burning into his flesh. He wasn't the sort of man to take needless risks, and his instincts screamed that the feral would tear him to pieces if he so much as glanced at IX the wrong way.

As if reading his thoughts, X's lips pealed back, exposing a set of brilliant white teeth that - although human blunt - looked strong enough to rip his throat out.

Turning, Remy followed after IX and calmly ignored the dead leaf like sound of whispers coming from the other cages. Let them think him a sellout, but Remy was a man who paid his debts, and he'd made a deal. He would train IX in the use of the bo, and perhaps he would find a chink in that blank faced armor and make friends with the small male. It never hurt to make allies in a place like this. Any chance of escape would hinge on forming connections.

* * *

"Look Mon Ami, you be standin' all wrong. Let Remy show-"

"No. Attack me."

"I know you be wantin' ta learn, but to learn you have ta know how to hold the weapon first!" Remy said, exasperated with IX utter refusal to actually be trained. How was he supposed to teach someone who wouldn't even listen to instruction?

IX set the bo aside, and moved to the center of the training room. "X, attack me." Remy's jaw dropped when the much larger male launched himself across the room. If possible, it would have dropped even further when six razor sharp knives ripped out of his knuckles to slash in a glittering arch at IX's head.

Before they could connect, IX sidestepped. A small knife licked out, hissing over the other mutant's ribs. The pair began to circle each other.

Remy couldn't take his eyes off the deadly dance of the pair. They'd clearly trained together for a long time, and flowed over and around each other like liquid. While he watched, Remy felt something and couldn't keep the shock off his face, though the two wouldn't notice anyway. They were too focused on each other.

He felt something from IX. It was a small thing, like a tiny current of warm water at the bottom of a shaded pond. In the days since the healing, Remy had convinced himself that IX was able to shield his emotions, but now he realized that he was truly almost empty of them.

Unlike most people, whose souls were like the ocean, full of currents and undercurrents, IX was like a small pond in the center of a forest. His waters were deep, but still. Nothing moved them...no. Almost nothing moved them. Still watching, he saw those green eyes remain locked intently on the feral. That tiny ribbon of heat was a result of X, Remy was certain of that.

And X, well he was a raging inferno of lust. Remy had to avoid dipping into that heat less his own body respond.

After half an hour, IX's small knife got caught between X's ribs. The feral was on the smaller male in an instant, pressing him to the ground as his teeth sank into the delicate shoulder hard enough to make Remy wince before they detangled themselves and stood again.

X returned to the wall to watch as IX turned back to Remy. "You see, I will not break. Attack me, and I will learn as we fight."

Deciding to take IX word for it, Remy attacked. He didn't hold back, even when IX made a rookie mistake, leaving his fingers exposed on the wood. Remy's bo came down, and he cringed when he heard bone break.

A low snarl snapped his head around to see X stalking towards him.

"No." IX's voice halted X in his tracks before sending him back to the wall. Closing his eyes, IX focused and the bones knitted back together.

Remy expected to see the same exhaustion on IX face that had been there during his healing, but found nothing. "Ya can heal ya'self widout sufferin' for it?" Remy asked.

"Yes," came the less than enlightening reply. "Again."

Sighing, Remy attacked again. The pattern continued for over three hours before IX called a halt to the training. After each blow that caused too much damage to be ignored, IX would pause long enough to heal before demanding Remy attack again.

To the Cajun's amazement, IX did learn simply from being beaten bloody over and over again. More and more, Remy had to deflect his own attacks as the smaller mutant learned his style and then to his shock, began to change that style to better fit his smaller frame.

"Enough. We will train again tomorrow."

Remy couldn't quite suppress the groan of exhaustion at the thought. He wasn't in bad shape, but three hours of non-stop fighting was still more than he was used to.

* * *

IX stood silently, studying the trembling girl curled up in the middle of the cage. Sweat fell in small streams down her face, and though her sobs had subsided, she still sniffled every few seconds. Her chestnut brown hair was plastered to her skull from the sweat, and her face was covered in red splotches from the experiments. Two hours ago, the Doctor demanded he take the girl back to the cages and watch her because he was sick to death of her caterwauling and carrying on. He'd ordered IX to keep an eye on the experiment and to retrieve him if something went wrong.

The normal curses had died down an hour ago, and even Remy stopped trying to get the smaller mutant to talk. He hadn't responded to anyone, and continued his silent vigil as if he and the girl were alone in the vast room.

Suddenly, the halting sniffles broke off as the tiny form began convulsing. IX saw the girl's face begin to purple, and observed the white froth already forming on her lips. It was obvious that she was choking on her tongue, and he knew that she would be dead in by time he retrieved the Doctor since the man flat out refused to allow IX to shadow walk him anywhere. He could save the girl, but that went against his orders.

Turning away, IX slipped into a shadow and vanished. Ten minutes later, and six too late to do any good, they returned. The Doctor took one look at the cooling corpse and cursed before he rounded on IX. It would have been effortless for the small assassin to dodge the blow, but he stood still and allowed the backhanded slap to land.

The force of the blow was enough to slam him into the front of Remy's cage, but IX said nothing. Instead, he straightened, and ignored the small trickle of blood oozing down his chin.

"You imbecile, why didn't you do something!" The Doctor shrieked.

"Your orders-"

"My orders be damned," he hissed. "What kind of moron walks away from someone who is clearly dying when they could stop them from dying first before they get the doctor?"

IX didn't reply, nor did he drop his eyes or demonstrate any of the normal behaviors of someone who's ashamed of their actions.

"Idiot. Whatever. Take the corpse to the autopsy room."

Remy studied IX, dipping into that hauntingly empty pool of emotion and feeling nothing as the Doctor stormed away.

"Pathetic," Pietro hissed from the cage across from him. His body blurred, trying fruitlessly to escape the rubber contraption that held him in the center of the cage. "He's nothing but a whipped dog. No matter how many times the masters kick him, he'll still lick their boots."

IX said nothing, not even bothering to look back at the tethered mutant.

"Mon Ami, why do ya let them treat ya so?" Remy asked.

IX opened the door to the cage and tossed the limp body over his shoulder. "It is my duty to obey," he replied in a dead voice before vanishing.

* * *

_Time Skip - Three Years - Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

* * *

The Great Hall rang with the chatter of students as the sorting came to the P's and no Harry Potter was called. None of the teachers commented, and instead Professor McGonagall's voice rose as she called the next name.

And so, the sorting continued.

Professor Dumbledore knew tomorrow news would go out that young Harry died in a tragic house fire five years ago. After he'd learned of Harry's demise, he'd kept the news to himself out of weakness. In his heart, he'd hoped the boy still lived. Even though all his searches came up empty, he still couldn't quite bring himself to admit their hope had died.

In the years between then and now, he'd penned all his hopes on one final stroke. The enchanted pen which addressed all the Hogwarts letters. Unfortunately, no letter was written for Harry Potter, and the last flickering hope in his ancient chest died.

It was easy enough to fire-call Cornelius and express concern over the lack of a Hogwarts letter, thus allowing the Aurors to be the ones to uncover the tragic tale. The Minister was, reasonably for once, furious. He demanded to know why Dumbledore hadn't known that The-Boy-Who-Lived had died.

The answer was simple. That Dumbledore hadn't checked on the child for fear of leading any stray Death Eaters straight to the boy's home. While this answer hadn't satisfied the man one bit, there wasn't any evidence left that the fire had been unnatural in any way. All the records showed that it was a perfectly normal, if tragic, house fire, which killed all the living residents.

Sighing, and pulling his thoughts away from the past, Dumbledore gave his normal start of the year speech before sitting down to the feast. His hand strayed to a small, emerald green pouch laced around his neck. Fingering the stone through the velvety cloth, he sighed again.

The death of Harry made things all the more complicated. He believed in the prophesy, but knew there was no way Neville Longbottom could fulfill it. After Harry's death, he'd taken a good long look at the second child and knew the boy would be dead in seconds if he ever encountered a lone Death Eater, let alone the Dark Lord himself.

No. Neville simply wasn't going to be the key to this evil little box. Dumbledore knew he'd have to do all he could to rid the world of his one-time student and hope for the best. Again, his fingers stroked over the velvet. The Stone. That was another complication he'd been forced to deal with. Had the boy survived, it - and the traps he and the other professors would have devised - would have been the perfect testing ground to not only lure what was left of Voldemort out of hiding, but to see what he had to work with.

Dumbledore would never wish harm on Harry, but he knew if the child had lived, he would have had a hand in shaping the future hero. The Stone would have been a marvelous first test. He could have gauged the boy's willingness and ability to innovate as well as getting a measure on the boy's moral fiber. Plus, he was certain if he advertised that both the Stone and Harry Potter were at Hogwarts at the same time, Voldemort would come.

Then he could expose Harry to Voldemort in a controlled environment, allowing the two foes to meet and help instill the sense that Voldemort had to be defeated for the good of all into Harry at the tender age of 11.

Now that was impossible.

Turning his attention to the meal, the Professor gave a small bitter smile. He still had the Stone, but he wasn't going to hide it away behind a few easily breached protections. No, he'd keep it with him. Perhaps after 10 years of life as a wraith, Voldemort would be desperate enough to try and steal it from him. If so, Dumbledore would remind the boy why he'd always feared him.

* * *

The rusted iron door clanged open at the end of the long, dreary stone hall. A shaggy black dog lifted his head off his paws and listened. He recognized the heavy clomp of guard boots and shifted minutes before they paused in front of his cell.

"Oi, Black! Looks like your  _Master_  should have waited a couple years," the guard gave a dark laugh as he threw the paper into Sirius's cell.

Only when the sound of boot steps retreated and the door clanged shut again, did Sirius move. His muscles fought each other as he uncurled, not wanting to obey. Not because of atrophy from years spent in this nightmarish place, but out of fear of what the guard meant.  _Surely he can't mean..._

Swallowing, he reached for the paper with shaking hands before he threw back his head and screaming.

**The-Boy-Who-Lived-To-Die**

All round him, madmen and women added their howling voices to his shattered one.

Hours or maybe days later, a black dog plunged into the ocean.

* * *

"I am in position."

"Position confirmed. Roof top left."

"Roof top right."

"Creed, flush the prey."

Zero was on his stomach, watching through his scope while Creed entered the dingy bar. IX was across the street, also playing eyes for the operation.

They'd gotten the message half an hour ago that a person of interest had surfaced. The target wasn't one Stryker wanted, but the team had been gathered anyway. Apparently, the Government had come up with a new containment concept, and needed a few mutants to test it on. Their subject happened to be on the list of acceptable guinea pigs.

Suddenly, Creed exited the bar. The door shattered, sending the feral flying over twenty feet to land ass first in the windshield of a small blue Chevrolet. Zero could hear the muffled swearing all the way up here but didn't waste time staring at the downed mutant.

His eyes were all for the nine foot giant who came storming out of the shattered remains of the door. "Ridiculous," Zero muttered under his breath. Juggernaut was a very difficult man not to recognize, considering he was nine feet tall and weighed nearly two tons, he was an easy guy to spot.

As if that wasn't enough of a giveaway, the idiot was wearing his giant metal helmet. If he was trying to keep a low profile, he failed miserably. Zero had no idea what brought the mutant out to such a public place, but it was in their favor so he wouldn't complain.

Moving smoothly into the void at the larger mutant's back, X struck. His claws tore through the metal helmet like it was a cap of Paper Mache. The strike was so precise that when the pieces fell away, there wasn't a drop of blood spilled.

Zero couldn't help but feel impressed with the display. There had been a time when those claws tore through anything put in front of them. They had to use IX to teach the feral better control after they'd lost their third catch to those deadly weapons.

With a roar of mindless rage, Juggernaut turned and slammed his fist into the top of X's head. The feral slammed face first into to the ground hard enough to splinter the cement, and went still.

"Hey asshole, don't forget about me," Creed had managed to extract himself from the car in time to slam into Juggernaut's middle, sending them both to the ground.

Gripping Juggernaut's head, Creed slammed it into the ground half a dozen times before the much larger man stopped moving.

After making sure that the monster of a man was down for the count, Creed stood, kicked X in the back and growled, "get up lazy ass, I'm not carrying this bastard to the truck all by myself."

X blinked, shook his head and stood. Together the pair of ferals wrestled the massive man into the back of the semi before they strapped him into the restraints designed to contain him.

"Mission accomplished, return to base," Zero commanded. On the street, Creed was snapping at the civilians who'd stopped to watch the show to get on with their day unless they'd like to join the big guy in the truck.

* * *

Outside the building, winter winds howled, pulled at hats, and created tiny snow devils to dance around parked cars.

Inside the Senate Hearing Room, people were beginning to regret having bundled up so well against the cold. The room was packed to capacity, not only with the politicians, but with the press and a large swath of everyday folks who'd come to observe the proceedings. The teaming mass of people, coupled with the radiating heat of the television lights had forced the temperature in the room high enough to make even TV conscious senators remove their jackets. A number of observers in the balcony had been reduced to using folded papers or notebooks as fans to try and alleviate the heat.

Near the center of the room sat Professor Charles Xavier. His wheel chair afforded him a little extra space from the crush of people, but not much. Closing his eyes, he could feel the hostility of the crowed nibbling away at his mental shields and knew it would be like the roaring of the ocean at the height of a storm if he dropped them completely.

He couldn't blame them for their fear. After all, it was the tradition of humans the world over to hate and fear anything different from themselves.

An encouraging smile danced across his lips when Dr. Jean Grey took her place at the front of the hot room. She had a commanding presence, one that the senators responded to by falling silent to listen. She was a powerful and beautiful woman in her early thirties, and it was her duty to educate the Senate about the basic science of mutation prior to their vote on the Mutant Registration Act.

Over the past couple of weeks, the Professor helped craft the presentation she was about to give. They had practiced it extensively so that it would be clear to both the senators and the common people in the audience and on the other side of the television cameras that Registration was not the answer.

It was their hope that by providing facts about mutation, they would be able to sway public opinion back to their side. Bigots like Senator Kelly and his ilk would fold like paper tigers if the public no longer backed their anti-mutant position.

"Lights, please?" Jean said.

A low mumble of relief echoed around the room as the lights were cut and people hoped the darkness would ease the heat.

Once the room dimmed enough for the presentation to begin, Charles closed his eyes instead of shifting to watch. He cracked his shields to get a feel for the crowd. Not enough to read thoughts, but just enough to let the feelings of others wash over his mind to gauge their reaction to the presentation.

Hostility wafted through his mind like the scent of something burning in the kitchen, and under that emotion was boredom. Jean would have to work hard to win this crowed. They would all have to work together to sway public opinion enough to defeat the registration law.

"DNA" Jean's clear voice cut through the darkness as she began her presentation. "It is the basic building block of evolution. Changes in our DNA are the reason we've evolved from single-celled organisms to  _Homo sapiens_." On the screen, an animation fast forwarded through the various stages of evolution. Next to the animation, a graph showed a diagonal line demonstrating the ascension of the human animal; charting the evolution of man.

The two images vanished, to be replaced by a single graphic of the earliest form of man:  _Homo habilis_. It was an apelike humanoid covered in thick hair.

Some of the hostility faded, replaced by a small spike of mingled curiosity and revulsion as people were confronted with images of what they were descended from.

"Within in our DNA," Jean explained, "are the genes that deiced our physical characteristics. It is when these active genes mutate that we observe changes in the body."

On the screen, the image began to mutate into a more recognizable human form.

As the presentation continued, the crowd became more fascinated and started to lose the edge of hostility.  _Perfect,_ the Professor thought. That's exactly what they'd been hoping for.

"These evolutionary changes are often subtle, and normally take thousands of years to occur."

The human image on the screen froze and became transparent. Twenty percent of the figure was marked with blue, while the rest was marked in red, showing the dormant genes.

Smiling, the Professor felt the people around him get caught up in the information being presented. The room was silent, save a few small clusters of senators who were determined not to pay attention, and whispered among themselves. One such member was the chairman, Senator Kelly.

"Within each of us are millions of genes that dictate our physical makeup. But that's not all, there are millions upon millions of genes whose purpose is unknown to us. These genes have traditionally been referred to as 'junk DNA.' The truth is, over eighty percent of our genetic structure is made up of this so-called junk DNA."

The words PRESENT DAY appeared on the screen and a number of the dormant genes in the image began to move. They moved slowly at first, before speeding up.

"In recent years, and for reasons that are still unknown, we have seen the latent DNA in or bodies start to mutate. In general, these mutations manifest at puberty, and are often triggered by periods of heightened emotional stress," she explained.

Pride filled Charles when he realized that at this moment, Jean had won over the audience, save a few close minded senators. In spite of the heat, they were giving her their undivided attention.

"These new DNA strands caused by mutation have produced some startling results. In other words, this previously unused DNA is not junk DNA at all, but rather a vast storehouse which contains an almost unlimited potential for human evolution."

Suddenly the graph vanished, and was replaced by a man performing amazing feats. First he grew in size; then moved objects with his mind before his skin changed to a deep violet.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are now living in the beginning of a new stage in human evolution. Mutants are not a new race of creatures to be feared, but rather the opportunity to find advancement within us all."

Slowly the dimness was dispelled as the lights came back up.

Scanning the room again, Charles knew they'd accomplished what they'd set out to do. The new understanding of the facts behind mutation had slightly shifted the perceptions of the people assembled.

An odd mark on the back of someone's neck caught his eye. He frowned as he studied the single straight line, followed by an X. The lines weren't made by ink, he knew, but they didn't look like the scar from a blade either. The frown deepened as he tried to figure out what made it, and why someone would want such a thing. Then again, some of today's fads were beyond bizarre to him, so perhaps this was the start of yet a new form of body modification.

Before he could focus enough to dip into the stranger's mind and sate his curiosity, Senator Kelly stood. Now came the hard part. Jean would have to defend her position against the man, and Charles could tell it wouldn't be easy.

The senator gave Jean a patronizing smile, as if she were a child who'd performed a cute trick and he wanted to pat her on the head and send her off with a treat while the grown-ups dealt with important matters. "Why thank you for the wonderful cartoon, Ms. Grey. It was quite – how should I say? – educational."

A few muffled chuckles drifted up from the crowd.

"However, you failed to address the real matter, which I might add is the focus of this hearing. Three words: Are mutants dangerous?"

There was a low rumble in response to those words, and the professor felt new anxiety enter the group.

"Well, Senator Kelly, don't you think that's an unfair question? In the wrong hands, a car can be dangerous."

"Indeed, Ms. Grey. That's why we license people to drive," Kelly shot back. One of the man's aids, Henry Guyrich, handed the senator a black folder stuffed with documents.

"But we don't license people to live, Senator," Jean insisted.

Kelly didn't respond.

"It is a fact, Senator, that mutants who reveal themselves to the public are met with fear, hostility, and at times, violence."

The feel of the crowd shifted again, once more turning against Jean. While he skimmed over the surface impressions of the crowd, Charles felt a new presence enter the room. Turning his wheelchair enough to observe the back of the room, he spotted a dark figure dressed in an expensive suit by the rear door.

It was his old friend Eric, but what was he doing here? The pair exchanged a single nod before the Professor returned his attention to the crowd.

"It is because of that hostility that I'm urging the Senate to vote No to Mutant Registration. By forcing mutants to expose themselves, we will only increase the instances of violence and expose them to unnecessary prejudice," Jean said.

After wiping a drop of sweat from his brow, Senator Kelly offered Jean another shark-like smile and the Professor knew he was about to launch his attack.

"Expose themselves?" Kelly asked in a mock-innocent voice. "What exactly is the mutant community trying to hide?"

"I didn't say they had anything to hide. What I said was-"

"Let me show you what's being hidden," the Senator said, easily talking over Jean. He held up an enlarged photo of a half melted car on the freeway. "You see? This was taken by a state police officer in Secaucus, New Jersey. Apparently, a man in a minor altercation literally melted the car in front of him."

Professor Xavier gritted his teeth as fear once more infected the crowd, causing the hostility to spike. More fans had been brought in to combat the heat, but even their dull roar wasn't enough to distract from the drama playing out.

"May I see that photo, Senator?" Jean asked calmly.

Ignoring her question, Kelly spoke directly to the cameras. "This is not an isolated incident, Ms. Grey."

He held up the folder. "Here I have a list of known mutants, living among us."

"Senator Kelly!" Jean said with more force.

Still, he ignored her. "There is a girl in Illinois who can walk through walls. What's to stop her from waltzing into a bank vault? Or the White House," he paused, a look of deep concern on his face as he pointed to one of the cameras. "Or your house?"

With that line, the Professor knew they'd lost. Anger ripped through the crowd as headed discussions and side debates exploded around the chamber. Senator Kelly had succeeded in getting them to ignore facts in favor of emotion.

"You are not being-" Jean tried to shout over the noise, but was interrupted again.

"There is even a rumor, Ms. Grey," he said as he turned to stare directly at her, "that there are mutants so powerful that they can enter our minds and control our thoughts, taking away our God-given free will."

More than one person actually gasped in shock at that statement.

"Ms. Grey, don't you agree that Americans have the right to decide if they want their children to be in school with mutants, to be taught by mutants?" Kelly leaned forward, "After all, you are a school teacher. I would think the rights of parents and students alike should be of paramount importance to someone like you."

"They are," Jean replied firmly. 'But this is not the way to help them. I would like to see that folder."

"Why?" Kelly asked before waving it in front of the crowd. "All I'm saying is that parents' have the right to know what sort of dangers their children might face at school. That's the whole point of the Mutant Registration Act."

"It's not the point, and you know it," Jean shouted, furious now. "Your purpose is to discriminate and torture a group of citizens, just because you are afraid of them. Now I would like to see your so-called list."

She held out her hand, and the folder suddenly flew from the senator's grasp toward Jean's open hand.

Realization flashed over her face, and Jean closed her and before letting her arm fall to her side. But the damage was done. Pages of documents and photos fluttered like the feathers of a shot bird as the folder fell limply to the ground.

Uncertainty formed an undercurrent in the crowd. They weren't sure what just happened, but they knew something unseen had come into play during this hearing, though they didn't know what it was. That uncertainty heightened their fear.

A low sigh escaped the Professor as he shut down his mind, blocking the sensations of the people around him. They'd lost this battle, and nothing they did now would change that.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," Senator Kelly said while playing for all he was worth to the cameras. "The simple fact is that mutants are very real and that they are among us. We have to know who they are, and above all, we must know what they can do."

Cheers erupted from the crowd at this declaration, and the Professor turned his chair to move up the ramp towards the exit. They had both known this was a long shot, but he'd hoped they could make a difference. Clearly, that hope had been in vain.

The debate continued behind him as he entered the near empty hallway outside the Hearing Room. There were a few friendly voices raised in an attempt to support Jean, but they were easily overwhelmed. The bill would be presented to the main floor of the Senate, and that would be the next time they'd have a chance to try and stop it. But they would have to do better if they wanted to succeed.

A man walked ahead of the Professor on his way towards the main entrance, Eric Lehnsherr. "What are you doing here?" Charles asked.

Eric turned and offered a small smile. "Why do you always ask questions when you know the answers?"

Moving forward, Charles stopped once the pair faced each other. "Please don't give up on them, Eric."

"And what would you have me do? You must remember, I've heard all these arguments before. They were used very well," he said, as one hand drifted subconsciously to the hidden tattoo on his arm.

"That was a long time ago. Mankind has evolved since thing."

"Yes," Eric replied. "Into us."

Frowning slightly, the Professor decided to reach out and search for what he wished to know. With delicate care, he sought his answers.

Eric reached up and rubbed at one temple, then smiled. "Are you sneaking around in my mind?"

He clinched his fist, causing the Professor's chair to bow inward ever so slightly even as it began to lift off the ground in subtle warning. "Whatever are you looking for?" Eric asked, the smile remained, but held an edge now.

"Hope, Eric. I'm searching for hope."

The chair eased around him before returning with a light thump to the ground.

"I will bring you hope, my friend. I only ask one thing in return: Don't get in my way," he said as he turned and walked away. "We are the future, Charles. Not them. They no longer matter."

Charles didn't respond to Eric's final comment because it was a useless endeavor. He didn't agree with Eric's philosophy, and Eric know it.

Regular people mattered. Now more than ever.

Behind him the doors opened as the assembly broke up. People began to flow around him as if he was a rock in the middle of a river.

"I understand how you feel, Senator, the thought of children as something dangerous is difficult to grasp. But, I've witnessed just how dangerous mutants in school can be, and we need to think about the safety of the children." The youthful voice, so like any one of his students, drew the Professor's eye and he recognized the dark, slightly messy hair belonging to the person with the strange mark on his neck. He was walking next to one of the older women of the senate, one of the ones Charles knew was on the fence about the whole matter.

"I don't know," she replied, and he offered a charming smile.

"Just think about the average teenage male, and picture him with the ability to wish people dead. He might not even mean to do such a thing, but in a moment of testosterone driven anger, it would happen."

There was something about the young man that stirred unease in the Professor, something slightly off about the voice, or the eyes. He narrowed his gaze, but the pair vanished into the crowed and Jean's voice broke into his thoughts before he could dig deeper.

* * *

IX kept a slight smile on lips more accustomed to no expression at all. Missions that required him to blend into the crowd were his least favorite. At least this one would be quick. Unlike the mission to whisper poisoned words into the ears of Senators who hadn't yet made up their mind about Mutant Registration. His youthful appearance, coupled with his compelling eyes made him the perfect choice for the task, and he'd managed to talk around a fair number.

Still, it was mildly awkward to remain conscious of the expression on his face and he was aware that his smile tended to creep people out if he wasn't careful. While he could fake emotion up to a point, the truth was that he still felt almost nothing. He could mimic the facial expressions of normal people, but it was pure analytical thinking for him, and his expressions, no matter how perfect, mirrored the fact that he was always slightly off with the timing.

"Next," the teller said, and IX made his move. The man in front of him had just pulled out a gun and was about to make his demand when he cried out in pain.

With a clatter, the gun fell to the floor, and the would be bank robber dropped to his knees after IX applied enough force to his shoulder joint to nearly pop it from the socket. "Hey!" The thief cried out indignantly, only to freeze when IX bent into him and whispered, "Make your multiples come to you."

"I don't know-ouch!" IX jerked the arm up a little higher.

"There are six other robberies in progress at this moment. You are committing them all, and you will bring them here to merge."

"Look, this is crazy. I don't know what-" The words came to an abrupt halt when he felt the prick of a knife at his back.

"What happens if one of the multiples dies, I wonder?" IX asked. His monotone words caused goosebumps to erupt down Dominc's arms when he realized that the guy behind him meant it. Insanity, but he suddenly didn't doubt that the stranger would kill him, here and now in front of witnesses if he refused again.

"A-alright, chill. Just put the knife away. They're coming." With that, IX forced him back to his feet and out the door. A guard attempted to get in the way, but one look into IX's poisoned green gaze made the man realize that his job wasn't worth more than his life.

A semi had pulled into the parking lot. Dominic thought about trying to run, but the back door slid open, revealing more men inside. The sort of men who wouldn't mind a good chase.  _I could make enough of me to fight them._

_What happens if one of your multiples dies?_

He swallowed and dismissed the thought. None of his multiplies had ever died before, but Dominic had a good idea that it would end badly for him if they did. As it was, if one got hurt, the injury would appear on his body when he reabsorbed it, though it would only be half as bad as the original damage. He nearly gaged at the thought of trying to merge with a corpse. Would he be able to survive half a death? He didn't think so.

Once the rest of him made an appearance, and he was once more a single man, the one who'd captured him forced him into the back of the semi. There he found what appeared to be a mobile prison of sorts.

"Oh come on! Don't I get a phone call?"

"No."

"This is bullshit."

"Indeed."

* * *

"Troll – in the dungeons - thought you out to know."

Professor Dumbledore stood just as Quirrell fell to the ground in a dead faint. Before the shocked silence could be broken by panicking students he spoke.

"Prefects," he bellowed, "lead your Houses back to the dormitories immediately!" As the students were ushered out of the room he turned to the remaining professors. "The rest of you split up and search for the Troll. If found, send a Patronus to let the rest of us know where the creature is."

The Headmaster kept his now un-twinkling gaze on the unconscious Professor while the teachers shuffled out after the students.

Once the Great Hall was empty save for the two of them, Dumbledore spoke. "So, you've found the courage to face me after all, haven't you Tom?"

Giving up on the ruse, Quirrell stood and dusted off his robes. The man frightened of his own shadow was gone, but something was wrong. Quirrell gave him an eerie smile before he pulled his wand and fired the first bone shattering curse. Dumbledore moved with the agility of a man a quarter his age as he dodged the curse. The chair behind him exploded.

For the next several minutes, the pair exchanged a multitude of curses, but Quirrell was too easily out classed. Again the sense that he was missing something plagued Dumbledore as his opponent hit the ground, caught by a simple leg locking curse. His want flew from his grip causing the smaller man to curse in a most un-Quirrell like manner.

"What are you playing at?" Dumbledore demanded as he moved to stand over his fallen foe. Blue eyes widened in shock when Quirrell pulled a small vial out of his pocket and swallowed the contents before he could react. He had just enough time to throw one arm over his eyes before a nightmarish shriek ripped from the man's throat as his body exploded, a bomb of body parts and bone shrapnel.

The force of the blast threw the old man half across the room and burned most of his beard and hair away.

Pain woke Dumbledore from his stupor, and he couldn't help but feel shocked that he was waking at all. He'd been able to half form a shield in the seconds before the blast, but it hadn't been able to save him from the worst of the damage. Though it did keep him from being ripped apart by the explosion.

Something moved on his chest, and he felt a small tug around his neck. Blinking, he was finally able to bring the black rat into focus. Beady-blood red eyes bored into his as sharp incisors bit through the last bit of string holding the bag around his neck. Dumbledore tried to move, to snatch the bag away from the creature even as he mentally cursed himself for forgetting that it wasn't just Defense Against the Dark Arts professors that the wraith could possess. He hated to admit it, but Voldemort had gotten the best of him this round.

His arms refused to move, still too hurt to obey his silent commands. While he watched, the rat got a good grip on the bag before it leapt from his chest and started to run towards the wall. _Arrogant old man, you should have destroyed the Stone while you had the chance_ , he lamented as he watched his enemy escape.

"Sectumsempra." The rat's front half continued to run a few extra steps, dragging his innards behind him before the brain was silenced by death. Severus stood in the doorway, his wand pointed at the dead rodent. He couldn't stop the cringe when he saw black smoke pour out of the dead beast and seem to look at him for a long moment before vanishing. If the Dark Lord returned, he knew there would be hell to pay for this day's work. Even if he could use the excuse that he had to maintain his cover, he knew he would be punished harshly for thwarting His return.

"Ah, Severus, perfect timing as always. Do help an old man up, won't you?" Dumbledore said. Sorrow filled his normally cheerful face as he patted at the place where his once luxurious beard had been. It was a mark of pride for any wizard his age to grow his own beard. Using a growth potion would be cheating, and he wasn't looking forward to the awkward stage where the whiskers were in between long and short.

As his potions master helped him regain his feet, he couldn't help but look over at the mess that had been his DADA professor. "Well, the curse was rather brutal this year. Don't you think? We should get this mess cleaned up before one of the students stumbles in here and has nightmares. By the by, did anyone find the Troll?"

Severus frowned as he turned to banish the mess Quirrell had left behind. While he'd hated the man for taking the post he'd wanted and for being an inept boob to boot, he still wouldn't have wished that fate on him. "No, the beast is still loose."

"Oh Dear. Well, we'd better join the search then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reason Harry didn't get the letter is because magically speaking, he's an adult. The letter is only sent to witches and wizards who are 11 year old children, not adults who've already had their magical inheritance.


	18. The Wheel Turns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the sake of my story, I'm counting Sabretooth and Victor Creed as two different people. After all, the Sabretooth of the first X-men looks nothing like Creed. That and my whole plot falls apart of they're the same because he can't be at two places as once.

Mutation. It is the key to our evolution. It is how we have evolved from a single-cell organism into the dominant species on the planet. This process is slow, normally taking thousands and thousands of years. But every few millennia evolution leaps forward. – Professor Charles Xavier

* * *

\- Hogwarts -

"That's enough," Hermione whispered, scrubbing at her tear stained cheeks more out of frustration than anything else. It was stupid to think Hogwarts would be different from her other schools. After all, magic – as wonderful as magic was – didn't change the nature of children. Even if they could waive a bit of wood and make impossible things happen, that didn't suddenly make them better, more understanding people.

In the end, they were children. No different from the ones who'd teased her from the start. Had there ever been a time when she wasn't an outcast? No, when she first began school, she was already intellectually superior to the other students. They hadn't teased her then, but she'd still be an outcast. As they grew, and the other kids began to understand how different her intelligence was compared to theirs, the ridicule began. It only got worse when looks became a factor and she was teased not only for her top scores and eagerness to show off her knowledge, but about her frizzy hair, and her buck teeth too.

After a while, Hermione gave up on the thought of having friends and put all her focus on her studies. Somehow, she'd allowed treacherous hope to bloom in her heart when she'd found out about being a witch. She had a reason to be different. No wonder the other kids teased her, they could sense that she was different. But then she'd gotten to the magical school where everything would be better, and learned the bitter truth.

Magic or no, humans were the same. Now, on top of having frizzy hair and buck teeth, being smarter than most, and always following the rules, she was a mud blood. More hot tears burned down her face. Sure, it was a stupid insult, but that didn't make it less painful. It was just another mark against her in the eyes of the people who should have been her peers, and another thing she couldn't change.

"Enough I said." This time, her voice was steadier. She'd wasted enough time moping, and had missed most of today's classes. Shame burned her cheeks when Hermione thought about going back to class and facing her professors. Being bullied was no excuse to miss class, she knew, and she hated the thought of disappointing them.  _I'll ask for some extra credit assignments to make up for being gone_ , she decided as she splashed water on her tear splotched face.

The hope for a new life at Hogwarts was dead, but it didn't matter. Not really. Hermione still had magic, and an endless number of new topics to explore. Just like her old school, she didn't need friends. All she needed was the library and her professors.

A rank stench wafted into the room, and her nose wrinkled in disgust. It reminded her a bit of the dung bombs a pair of red headed twins had thrown down the stairs two weeks ago, but was somehow more pungent. Turning off the faucet, Hermione turned, hoping against hope that this wasn't a prank. She wanted to be left alone, and absolutely didn't want to end up smelling like the stink now invading the room, or end up with purple hair.

Her mind froze when she saw the monster standing inside the doorway. It was beyond huge, with dark piggy little eyes, a massive club, and a cruel twisted face. All she could do was stare while terror unlike anything she'd ever known built inside her like steam building in a tea kettle. Once the pressure became overwhelming, it shot out of her mouth in a scream.

The beast's great mouth opened in a roar, and its club came around in ponderous slow motion. Hermione saw the club coming, but her fear was too overwhelming. Like a frightened mouse trapped by the eyes of a snake, she froze.

Pain exploded all down her right side as the log-like chunk of wood crashed into her and sent her flying, cutting the scream off. Hitting the wall, she fought to breath and was amazed she still could, but the relief was short lived. The ground seemed to shake with each step the monster took towards her and another terrible scream ripped from her throat. She tried to crawl away, to escape, but couldn't. With another primal roar, the club came down.

At first, Hermione couldn't comprehend what was happening. The club was half an inch from her face, and the pain seemed to fade out into stupid incomprehension. She couldn't focus, but knew something was terribly wrong. It was so hard to breath, but that wasn't the problem.  _Too close, too close, the club is too close._ Her right arm had been reaching forward to drag herself away from the creature, but she couldn't see it, just the club.

Something crashed behind them, and she thought she heard Professor McGonagall's voice shout something in Latin. But, for once, her intellect wasn't up to the task of deciphering it. Instead, her whole mind was locked on the sight of the club, and of the way it was cratered into the stone floor…and of where her arm should have been.

Darkness ate at her vision, and things faded in and out. There were sounds in the darkness. Roars, shouts, a bone jarring thud. For a moment, her vision cleared, and she wished it hadn't. The club was gone, leaving behind a strangely mangled thing of red and splintered white.  _No, this can't be happening_.

"Child, don't look. Shhh, rest now. All will be well."

Glancing up from the red ruin, Hermione saw the friendly face of her Charms Professor. Only now the smile was gone, replaced with concern, and there was something in his eyes. A lie there.

Everything wasn't going to be alright.

* * *

Professor McGonagall stood rigidly straight as she knocked on the door. Her sorrow was hidden behind her professional mask, but her heart was heavy. Hermione was a shy, standoffish girl, but she was one of her best students. More than that, she was one of her lions. It was her duty to protect the children, and the sight of the girl's mangled arm would haunt her for the rest of her days.  _If we'd only been a little sooner_. It wasn't the first time she'd thought it, and it wouldn't be the last.

The door opened, revealing Mr. Granger's white face. He didn't look much better now than he had at St. Mungo's. It would still be a few days before the girl was released, and her parents protested venomously when they'd been told to return home. They'd been sent home for the same reason all muggles were, it was a magical hospital and far too dangerous for people who weren't magical to wander about alone in.

"What do you want?" His voice was hard, and he stood squarely in the door, a totally different man from the one she'd met at the start of the year when she'd delivered Hermione's letter.

"May I come in? I have much to discuss with you and your wife."

He clearly wanted to send her on her way, but also desperately wanted more information. Giving in to the inevitable, he stepped away from the door and let her pass.

After leading her into the living room, he vanished up the stairs and returned with Mrs. Granger. The woman's face was red and puffy, eyes bloodshot from long hours of crying.

They sat together on the couch, his arm around her slender shoulders. Both stared at McGonagall with equal looks of hostility and pain.  _If only I'd been sooner._

"Thank you for your time. Miss Granger is healing well, and she'll be fitted with a magically enhanced prosthetic arm-"

Mrs. Granger choked on a sob, and her husband gathered her into his arms, all the while glaring at McGonagall.

"When can our daughter come home?" He demanded.

"Mr. Granger, I understand how traumatic this situation is, but you need to think about your daughter's future. She must learn how to control her magic and the-"

"Are you insane!?" Mrs. Granger twisted like an angry cat in her husband's arms. "Absolutely not! Once she's out of that hospital, my baby is coming home." More tears poured down the woman's face, almost unnoticed in her fury.

"I understand. However, if you no longer wish her to attend Hogwarts, there are a number of other excellent magical schools she can go to."

"NO! I say No. I will not have any more of this dangerous nonsense, do you understand? Magic is why my poor baby was…was…" she couldn't finish the sentence, and fresh sobs tore from her chest. She could still see her daughter laying in the bed. So tiny, and frightfully pale. Worse, she could see the place where one perfect little arm had been, and the void its lack made under the crisp white sheet.

The troll attack had nearly killed the girl. With the first blow, it had broken all the ribs in her left side, along with her left arm. The second…the second strike had crushed her arm, and shoulder into so much raw pulp.

Magic was a wonderful, powerful force, but even the most advanced healing technique couldn't have repaired such an extensive wound.

Professor McGonagall closed her eyes and bowed her head. Something like that should never have happened. Hogwarts was supposed to be one of the safest places in the world. Taking a deep breath, she rallied. While she understood the Granger's wish to distance themselves from magic, it wouldn't work. They didn't seem to understand that their daughter  _was_  magic. She could not run away from herself.

A Pureblood could get away with having home tutors if their parents didn't want them to be taught at a school, but the same wasn't true for muggleborns. There was nothing more dangerous than a partially trained witch or wizard. They had to learn to control their power, or it would control them. Hermione could not be permitted to remain untrained. It was the law, but how she hated to be the one who had to do this.

The Grangers' frozen in terror when McGonagall pulled her wand. "I'm sorry, but this is for the best."

"Obliviate."

* * *

Hermione stared down at the wooden arm in revolution. Objectively, it wasn't horrifying to look at. If not for what it represented, it would have been a work of art. The wood was a soft golden brown, and if she looked closely, she could see tiny runes of gold carved in delicate rows and at each intricately carved joint. With a thought, the index finger twitched, and she shuddered.

The strange new limb responded like her real arm had, but she couldn't feel it. She thought, and the hand moved, but there was no physical sensations to help guide the movements. A single hot tear slid down her cheek, and Hermione wondered when she would ever stop crying. "I hate it," she sobbed, bringing her hands up to cover her face, only to flinch when smooth wood touched her cheek instead of flesh. Crying harder she reached up with her other hand and harshly poked at the rune that released the false limb before throwing it across the room.

It was a childish thing to do, but she couldn't stand it any longer. Why couldn't they make her old arm come back? How could magic turn a woman into a cat, but couldn't regrow an arm?

Still sobbing, she didn't hear the door open.

"Miss Granger?"

Hermione's head jerked up, and she quickly scrubbed at her face, trying to hide the tears. Professor McGonagall bent down and picked up the wooden arm. Looking up, she gave the girl a stern glance, causing her to blush before dropping her eyes.

"I'll put this over here," she stated drily before placing the arm on the bedside table. "I know things are difficult, but there's no need to damage your new arm. A lot of work went into it, and you shouldn't disrespect that."

More tears flowed, this time they were from shame.

"I'm sorry," she croaked, and she was. Even though she hated the wooden thing, it was all she had.

The Professor took a seat in the chair next to her bed. "I wanted to stop by and talk to you about the future. You will be returning to school once you're healed."

Her eyes shot wide and she shook her head violently. "No. Mom said-"

"I'm sorry child, but you must learn to properly harness your power or you will become a danger to the community. Now listen, I was forced to modify your parents' memories because they refused to understand that an untrained witch cannot be permitted by the Ministry of Magic."

Hermione gaped at her teacher, trying and failing to understand what she was saying.

"They believe that you were damaged in an automobile accident, and that magic allowed us to save your life and give you a new limb."

The girl shook her head, not able to believe what was happening.

"I understand your confusion Miss Granger, but you have to realize that you could hurt them, and badly if you leave your schooling now. Do you want to kill your parents?"

She bit her bottom lip and shook her head. No, she never wanted to hurt them.

"If you don't learn to channel your magic, you will. If you wish to be a good daughter, and keep them safe, then you will do as I say."

A life time of obedience towards authority figures took hold of the young girl, and when the older woman told her to sign the parchment she did without even bothering to read it. Not that she would have understood the legal jargon, intelligent or not.

Once the paper was signed, she felt something clamp down inside her, and gasped. "Shhh, it's just the binding magic of the contract. You'll get used to the feeling within a few hours and won't even notice it in a day or two."

"B-binding magic?" She squeaked.

"Yes. You will not be able to talk about what really happened to any muggle, including your parents." Hermione couldn't believe what she was hearing.

"What? Why?"

"Your parents were understandably upset, Miss Granger. They wanted to cut all ties with the magical world and leave you entirely untrained. As I've stated before, that would have ended in catastrophe. Now, you will be here for another week, and I'll return to bring you back to Hogwarts. I suggest you start practicing with your new arm in that time."

Hermione was left utterly speechless as the woman she'd respected above all others stood and left her alone in the too white room with the wooden monstrosity that was her new arm. Another flood of hot tears came, and she found that she was sick to death of crying.

* * *

\- Alberta, Canada –

Closing her eyes, Storm felt the gentle fall of snowflakes around the jet. Mentally counting the snowflakes helped ease the tension that had built over the last two hours of waiting. Cracking open one eye, she shot a mild glare at Cyclops, who dozed in the seat next to her. How could he sleep at a time like this? Then she gave a small smile, he'd always been able to drift off at the most awkward times, and in the most awkward places.

A small flashing dot moved on the tracking monitor. It was half a mile away from their current position, and represented Sabretooth. She wasn't sure why they were following one of Magneto's lackeys –  _one of his uglier lackeys_ – but the Professor said it was important. She frowned when the dot stopped moving, clearly waiting now.

Storm nibbled her lower lip while the anxiety grow. They'd been told to follow the brutish mutant until something happened, and that they'd know it when it did. Reaching out, she touched Cyclops's arm. He jerked as he came awake. "What?" He muttered groggily.

"I think it's time."

* * *

Marie bit the inside of her cheek as her eyes flitted restlessly around the dingy little bar named the Lion's Den. The place was small, and full of the odor of stale smoke, old grease, and spilled beer. The few people sitting at the bar had cast her a curious glance before dismissing her. The dread grew when one the four nudged her towards one of the booths. She wanted to run, but where could she go? There was a blizzard outside, and no one in here looked like they'd be willing to help.

The group sat down, two on each side of the booth, with her on a chair at the end. She sipped at the cherry coke they'd bought her, but found it difficult to swallow around the fear. Life as a runaway was more difficult than she could have imagined, and she was so tired of being scared. This wasn't the first time she'd gotten a bad vibe from someone who'd picked her up, but this was worse, so much worse. Still biting the inside of her cheek, she made her choice. Better the snow than this.

"I'll be right back, going to use the bathroom," she whispered. The men gave Marie a speculative look before Hank nodded, and she quickly stood up. Casting a single frightened look back, she darted for the bathrooms. When she reached them, she turned towards the front door instead, happy there was a wall obscuring the view from the bar.

Three steps out the door, she was jerked to a stop by a painful grip on her upper arm. With a sharp, frightened cry, Marie pulled away. She twisted around just as Hank reached for her again. "No! Don't, I told you not to touch-" The words broke off cleanly when his hand closed over hers.

"Where do you thi-" Hank's eyes went wide, and his mouth dropped open but no sound came out. Fear and horror warred inside her as the man's mind spilled open into her. Nightmarish images burned inside her mind and Marie pulled away before she bent to throw up. Hot liquid burned its way up her throat as the man fell, convulsing on the ground.

Terrified faces flashed through her mind's eye. She saw what he'd done to those two girls, what he'd planned to do to her. It was all there inside her skull, and now she wished she'd held on a little longer so the bastard died. Even then, the images would remain with her forever. Hell, she even knew where the bodies were buried.

Stumbling away from the still twitching murderer, Marie headed for the road. It didn't matter if she froze to death, she had to get away.

Marie never saw the massive shape that materialized behind her, and hardly felt the blow that drove her into unconsciousness.

* * *

A new blip appeared on the radar, indicating a second mutant with Sabretooth.

"Come on," Storm said as she set the jet down in a small clearing. While they hadn't been told what was going on, or why they were tracking the mutant, they had been informed that Magneto was interested in another mutant.

After they climbed out of the jet, Storm closed her eyes and focused. A warm, almost playful breeze sprung up around them. It gently pushed the fat, fluffy flakes of snow away from them, keeping the cold away as they moved towards the confrontation. The wind had another purpose. It kept their scent trapped in the mini cyclone.

Before long, they spotted their query. He looked like some sort of cave man, and the small girl tossed over one massive shoulder was tiny in comparison. The pair of X-Men shared a swift glance. Years of partnership passed without words between them and Storm stepped forward. Cyclops couldn't use his power while the girl was so close, so she'd have to separate them before they could save her.

Her eyes changed, going almost white as she focused her power, letting it build before allowing it to explode out of her in a jet of hurricane force wind. The blast hit perfectly, sending the unusual pair into a tumble which pushed the girl two dozen feet further than the feral.

Sabretooth leapt up in a flurry of snow and rage. His beastly roar ended in an almost feline yawl of pain when a blast of brilliant red light crashed into his chest and sent him flying into the tree line with a meaty thud. They waited for a heartbeat, but heard only silence. Not wanting to give the other mutant a chance to recover, Storm raced forward and scooped the unconscious girl up. She was painfully light, and the dark skinned woman felt something almost maternal well up in her chest as she looked down at the dirt smudged face. Hollows were formed under the girl's eyes, and her cheeks stuck out enough to give silent testimony to more than a few missed meals. "You'll be safe now," Storm promised, knowing the girl would find what she'd found after the Professor took her in.

A home, somewhere she could finally feel safe. Without looking back, she and Scott returned to the jet.

* * *

The harsh clack of wood against wood echoed around the empty training room. It was a rhythmic, nearly hypnotic sound. Though each stroke was solid, it lacked the fierceness of a true battle.

Remy moved with liquid grace as he danced around a skull splitting blow before he lashed out, again wood crashed against wood. IX's dark green eyes never left his as they circled, clashed, broke apart, only to begin again. Sometime over the past three years, the training sessions had morphed into sparring matches that were almost done for pleasure instead of honing skill.

It had only taken the small weapon half a year to learn everything Remy had to teach, but IX hadn't stopped the sessions. Instead, once he'd been able to put his teacher on his ass ten times out of ten, the fights had stopped being so deadly serious and had become a sort of absent minded meditation. While Remy was still enough to give IX a decent work out, he knew the shorter male outclassed him enough that he didn't have to give the fight his entire attention.

Instead of feeling insulted at the lack of attention, Remy felt a twinge of satisfaction. Somehow he'd managed to survive the years, and the experiments of the mad doctor. He hadn't managed his goal of befriending IX, but he'd gained an odd sort of acceptance from the assassin. It wasn't friendship. No, not that. Thinking it over as his bo arched and twisted, he tried to define their strange relationship.

Tolerance. Not the tolerance he felt for his team, where he was required to work with them, but a more personal tolerance. It wasn't the same level of tolerance Remy knew IX had for X, but it was more so than anyone else he'd seen IX interact with. He didn't think the little mutant was capable of forming friendships, but he was certain that he was as close to a friend as IX had ever had.

"We won't be able to spar tomorrow," the low monotone words brought Remy out of his thoughts.

"Oh, what be ya up to Mon Ami?" Over the years the words 'my friend' had changed from sarcastic to sincere, though he didn't think IX noticed either way.

"We've been ordered to serve as guards for the United Nations World Summit."

"Dat sounds fan'cy."

IX blinked, and the next blow was just a bit harder than normal, showing his mild irritation over the upcoming mission. "Indeed. We have to wear suits."

A grin pulled at Remy's lips when he realized where the irritation was coming from. "Even X?"

"Yes." The word was clipped. It was hell trying to get the feral into a tailored suit, and X had spent the last three days pouting over the whole mess. IX's shoulder was a raw ache from the number of times the larger male had bitten him.

Remy couldn't help but laugh. Putting X in a suit was akin to dressing a bear. A hiss of pain escaped Remy when he was forced to dodge and block a rain of blows IX sent his way in retaliation for the laughter. Even though a few made it past his guard, the blows were half strength at best. Bruising, but not truly damaging.

A year ago he could have expected a broken rib for not blocking every blow sent. Then again, a year ago, he'd only been able to drag one or two words out of his sparring partner. Remy wasn't sure when IX started opening up, if only a little, to him. Dealing with IX was surreal. He'd seen the small man kill in cold blood, and in horrible ways, but he'd also spent countless hours like this. Trading blows and words, and he felt the deep emptiness in IX, but also felt the tiny tendrils of random heat that X inspired.

Once or twice, he'd even felt a feather light flicker of warmth directed at him. IX didn't know how to be a friend, or what a friend was, but Remy had learned that deep down IX was painfully lonely, and too badly damaged inside to recognize the emotion. Remy believed that broken emotion had been the nudge that allowed IX talk to him during these matches. Perhaps he rationalized it by classifying Remy as a captive whose only escape from here was death, but he felt certain that IX confided more in him than anyone else.

Except perhaps X, but that was an odd relationship too. One Remy couldn't quite understand. There were days when IX appeared with a deep bite mark in his neck, and one only had to watch how the feral's whole focus rested on IX whenever they were in a room together to know his feelings. But, the feelings in IX were far too stunted for a relationship. Remy was certain he'd know if the pair was intimate, but for some reason they'd never gone further than those strange bites.

Stepping back, IX lowered his weapon, bringing the bout to a close. Remy's whole body ached, and he knew he'd have a number of new bruises, but he still felt good. His mind turned over the new information, and he knew the time had finally come. "When will ya be returnin'?"

IX wiped the sweat from his face before answering. "We'll be leaving in the morning. Stryker wants the whole team to scout both islands before the guests start to arrive. The event will last most of the night, and we're going to be stuck there until it's over and Ellis Island is cleared." Most people thought IX's voice was without inflection, but Remy had learned to read the subtle currents in his flat tone. He obviously wasn't interested in the baby-sitting assignment. No, his quasi-friend preferred action.  _I was created to be a weapon, not to play shepherd to politicians,_ he'd said once after a weeklong bodyguard job Stryker had forced him on. By the end of it, the client was so freaked out by the silently staring teen that he'd called and demanded Stryker take him back and give him a guard who was less creepy.

It wasn't the first time Stryker had tried to force IX or X into missions that kept them away from the base, but it was one time when IX had deliberately irritated the subject of his mission enough for it to be terminated early.

"Well Mon Ami, don despair, Remy be sure sometin' will go wrong and you'll be der to kill it."

In the three years he'd known IX, Remy had learned to fear him. He'd had those strong hands pin him down while the doctor strapped him to the table, and he'd watched that brilliant mind unravel even the most potent mutations to figure out how to destroy them. But, even though he feared IX, and knew he would most likely be his death, he'd still grown fond of the small sociopath.  _It be like havin' a tiger fer a friend. He be a terrible beauty, one dat let me spend time wid him, but like dem big cats, one day de play will end. One day, de swat will be wid claws out._  Looking into those bottomless green eyes, Remy saw his death.

But, not today. He gave a final, gentle smile. Not today, but eventually.

* * *

Rogue couldn't keep the dopy little smile off her lips. Even though the Professor told her he couldn't cure her, and that she'd probably never be able to touch anyone again, it wasn't all bad. The days after the revelation had been the hardest. She'd felt even more alone then than she'd ever felt hitchhiking because the hope of finding some way to make things better had been crushed flat.

But then the other kids hadn't been afraid of her. The professors gave her a form fitting full body stocking that covered every inch of skin from the neck down to help keep her safe, and it was wonderfully soft and comfortable. More than that, it represented safety. She could reach out and touch people without fear of them being consumed by her mutation.

For the first time since the whole nightmare began with an innocent kiss, things were looking up. Rogue looked shyly to the side and smiled. Bobby walked at her side and he caught the look, smiling back. He'd asked her to take a walk in the woods around the estate that morning, and she'd leapt at the chance. She still couldn't believe a boy might be interested in her, knowing that they'd never be able to do much of anything together.

They'd ambled through the forest for almost an hour, talking about the school, the other students, the classes, and anything else that came to mind. He'd even reached out and snagged her gloved hand, holding it gently. She could feel the warmth of him through the thin material, and it made her toes curl with delight.

"Thirsty?" He asked, offering the water bottle he held in his other hand. Rogue gave another shy smile but nodded. Thirst didn't have much to do with it. In her mind Rogue acknowledged the silly thought.  _He already drank out of it, this is about as close to a kiss as I'm ever going to get_. Twisting off the cap, she took a long swallow of water. It tasted a bit off, a little metallic like faucet water. Her nose wrinkled a bit at the strange flavor.

Putting the cap back on, she looked at Bobby just as her vision doubled, then quadrupled. "Wha?" His warm blue eyes suddenly flashed a poisonous yellow, but before Rogue could try to speak again, her knees unhinged. Mystique caught the teen as she fell. Scooping the slender girl up into her arms, she jogged down a familiar path towards a small dirt road. Toad was waiting with a car, and he'd spirit the girl away while Mystique took care of Cerebro.

* * *

They walked side by side down the long rows of cages.

"No matter how much you pretend, you'll never be one of them," the voice was soft and venomous, drifting out of one of the cages, and directed not at IX, but Remy. "You'll always be one of us."

Remy's eyes stayed forward, ignoring the verbal jab that was nothing but truth. The metal collar itched around his neck, even years after it had been placed. He knew if he ever got the wretched thing off, he'd have a thin scar where the skin had been chaffed raw by the constricting material. It was a physical reminder that even though he had more privileges than the rest, he was nothing more than a captive of madmen.

But, he knew something else from his time on the other side of the bars with IX. So were the other mutants. The ones who didn't wear collars or sleep in cells. IX, X, Zero and the rest were just as trapped as the rest of them. Their chains were simply harder to see.

A high pitched giggle snapped Remy out of his brooding thoughts and he realized that IX had frozen behind him. Remy turned, about to ask what was wrong when he saw the green-eyed male locked in a staring contest with the facility's latest acquisition. Another shrill laugh broke off into words. "Tricky you. Hmmm, let's see. Let's seeeeee." The thin white haired teen stared at IX with huge pit black eyes, neither looked away.

"Kill him," another voice hissed from behind them. Remy turned a hard glare on the girl. Even as captivated as IX seemed to be, Remy knew he'd get a knife to the eye if he so much as twitched the wrong way in this moment.

Every muscle in IX's body was ridged, and a single drop of sweat slid down his face, but it wasn't fear that held him. It was a battle, and Remy knew it. Everyone within eye sight of the pale teen learned the hard way that the brat was a moderately powerful telepath. Strong, but inelegant. Having the idiot thrash about in their heads, while screaming their deepest secrets was beyond unpleasant. Not to mention it left one hell of a headache afterwards. They'd all learned not to look.

Even though IX's face didn't change, it seemed to darken when the telepath began to chortle. "Oh ho ho! Lookie what I've found. Wait until I tell them all about how much the big bad Executioner _loves_  to-"

For the first time in Remy's memory, IX's blank face cracked ever so slightly. His lips twisted in a half snarl. "You want to see? Let me show you." The words were as inflectionless as ever, but they made goose bumps erupt over every inch of Remy's skin. At the sudden silence, he suspected he wasn't the only one affected by that terrible voice.

"What? Stop it. You can't!" Terror twisted the telepath's face, but he didn't look away from IX's poisoned green gaze. It took Remy a moment to realize he  _couldn't_  look away.

Then the screaming began. High piteous shrieks that resonated eerily through the room causing the other prisoners to clutch their ears in a futile attempt to block the horrible sound out. The sound spiraled endlessly around the room, each ragged breath the mutant took was exhaled as a scream.

If Remy didn't fear for his own life, he would have reached out and jerked IX away, hoping to break the trance the pair seemed to be locked in. He had no idea what IX had done, or how he'd turned the telepath's power against him, but he wished with all his heart that it would stop. Still howling, the white haired boy sank to his knees. His fingers hooked into claws, and Remy knew what was about to happen before it did. It took everything he had not to throw up when those fingers plunged into wide black eyes. Some part of Remy knew he couldn't possibly have heard the orbs burst like grapes above the endless screams, but he heard it all the same.

Blood and thick clear liquid gushed down the boy's cheeks, but the desperate act hadn't helped. Whatever IX did, it had gotten into the telepath's brain, and even shutting the doors forever couldn't force it out again.

Ten long terrible minutes later the rasping screams broke off into stupefied silence. Bloody hands fell away from the mutant's slack jawed face. He knelt there, unmoving, uncaring that blood fell from the empty pits where his eyes used to be.

Not wanting to, but incapable of stopping himself, Remy reached out to brush at the telepath's emotions and felt a gaping emptiness. It felt like the smooth inside of a shell that had been spit out by the ocean, scraped clean of life. Even though the body still breathed, the mind had collapsed under the force of whatever IX had done.

Tearing his haunted gaze from the living corpse, Remy studied IX. Even after knowing him for three years, some irrational part of him expected to see his own horror reflected in IX's face. But of course, it wasn't. The deep blankness had returned, and he could read nothing there.

"Come on," IX's cold detached voice made Remy's gut twist, but he followed meekly as he was lead to his cage and locked in.

* * *

Returning to the blood spattered cage, IX reached out and willed the door to open. A silence so heavy it was suffocating filled the room while the frightened mutants watched him. The silence didn't bother him. It was often like this when he terminated a test subject, but this silence was heavier in a way. Perhaps because they, like he, knew this hadn't been ordered.

That, and the subject was still alive. More or less.

IX crouched and studied the ruined face. His slender finger reached out to probe one of the gaping holes, and made a mental note of the utter lack of reaction to his touch. Once he was satisfied with the examination, IX pressed his hands against both sides of the telepath's face and focused.

There was nothing he could do about the eyes, but he could heal the wounds so that he didn't bleed to death or die of infection. Not that that would save IX from punishment, but it was all he could do. Scar tissue seemed to flow into the empty sockets, slick and bloody. Even after the physical damage was dealt with, the telepath didn't rouse.

A deep itch twisted cruelly down IX's spine, already anticipating the lash. He would be able to heal the wounds after the punishment, but that didn't lessen the pain during. While IX hadn't been punished often over the years, he'd learned not to earn the ire of the doctor.

Ruining a new test subject before the doctor had even had a chance for the first examination was an excellent way to enrage the doctor.

IX stood and turned away from his mistake. They had a mission to prepare, for and the doctor's punishments would have to wait. Mild irritation at himself pulsed inside him before fading. When the telepath's mind shoved into his, IX hadn't been able to push it out again. The foreign mind had been like a giant slug, slick and mobile. No matter how he shoved, that semiliquid mind had flowed around him and penetrated deeper.

Memories began playing behind his eyes, and he knew that the telepath watched them, dug deeper, searching for something. Then he'd found X.

_Large callous hands stroked hungrily down his naked back. IX allowed the touch, as he allowed the bites. He felt the sharp dig of ridged flesh pushing up against his lower belly. That was more annoying, but the hot tongue probing his neck was good, warm, welcome. His own body failed to respond to the menstruations, as it always did, but IX was relaxed. He couldn't understand X's fixation with touching and rutting against him like this. Strangely, he didn't need to understand. Being held while the larger man growled, low and thrumming against his throat, was enough. Only here could he fully relax and let his guard down._

_The feel of sharp teeth in his flesh had come to mean peace._

It was only when the telepath forced himself into that moment of peace, shattering it, that IX felt something hot and biting. The sensation cut into the center of his chest like a scalding dagger, and he reacted. Instead of trying to shove the teen out, his own mind responded. It grew sharp, sinking hooks into the enemy as his magic answered to the burst of emotion. The hooks drug the thrashing mind down, down, down into his oldest memories.

Once there, he'd formed a box around the invader, and shoved him wholly into his earliest training. The first death, in the mind scape. It had been a true death just like all the others. He could feel the wild terror build in the mutant when he felt himself die, felt his own neck bones shatter, and he experienced the claustrophobic feeling of trying to draw a breath only for nothing to happen.

That was the first death. One of too many to count. After the fifth, the telepath had broken down and began begging. By the twelfth, he'd been beyond begging. IX knew he could have let the other go then, and he would have healed, perhaps not completely, but he would have been functional.

But he hadn't. The burning feeling hadn't abated, and his healing ability hadn't touched it. Only the mutant's screams seemed to soothe the heat. This mutant had trespassed, and IX was unwilling to forgive the transgression. Even after the other had clawed his own eyes out in a vain attempt to break the connection, he hadn't released him. It was only after the other mind had been crushed entirely under the weight of an unrelenting succession of deaths that he shoved, forcing the now shattered mind out of his.

Even as IX committed the act, he realized and accepted there would be punishment. It didn't matter. He would deal with the pain when it came. Now it was time to work.

* * *

It took more effort than was pretty for X to keep his lip from curling in a doglike snarl. The lightening taste of his mate's blood lingered on his tongue, but the fading flavor wasn't enough to make up for being separated, or for being forced into such constricting clothing.

He stood with a pair of human guards at the side of the road. The large white German Shepard continued shooting him glares, but they'd already exchanged growls so low the humans hadn't noticed. X won the initial challenge, his dominance clearly superior to the canines even if the dog wasn't taking it without protest. They'd have to fight it out if he wanted the beast to fully submit, but he knew better than to do so.

Instead, he focused on the next sleek limo that pulled up. Each vehicle had to be searched top to bottom. While the dog was well trained, it still didn't have the level of intelligence X had even if it was more animal cunning than human intellect. He took a long deep breath, scenting nothing dangerous. The dog didn't key, but still, he took another long draw before another low growl curled his lips. Reaching into the car, he pulled the driver out. The man stank of fear.

"Let me go," he yelped, but X didn't release him. Instead he sniffed again before his hand darted out and snatched a strange clear gun hidden down the front of the man's pants. The driver blanched and tried to desperately pull away, but X's grip was unbreakable. His knuckles throbbed, wanting to release his claws and tear into the twisting body.

_Do not attack unless you are attacked first. Do not use deadly force._ IX command returned to him, keeping his claws sheathed.

Then the human guards were there. They pulled the cursing man free, and hustled him off. X snarled low in his throat before turning to the next car.

* * *

Humanity formed a glittering throng around IX, but he wasn't afraid of the near suffocating crush of bodies. Instead, he felt like a wolf who'd slipped into a comfortable lamb skin cloak and walked brazenly among them. If necessary, he could cut one from the herd with such ease the rest wouldn't know what happened.

The muscles in his cheeks pulled his lips up into a passable approximation of a smile while his eyes tracked endlessly over the crowd of powerful people. Unlike the other guards, he didn't look like what he was. His suit was as tailored and expensive as any who'd arrived in a stretch limo.

Cold fire draped the necks of trophy wives in the form of intricately bedecked diamonds as the women competed with each other as fiercely as any Politian. While this might be a conference for world leaders, it was also a world stage, and the ladies of high society were not going to pass up on an opportunity to fight for the top spots in the eyes of fashion media.

People continued pouring into Ellis Island, and IX moved with the flow. It would be another hour before everyone found their seats and the tedious speeches could begin.

Time passed, and a small army of ushers began shooing guests into their proper sections. IX allowed himself to be pushed along, before sitting with the rest.

"My goodness, isn't this exciting?"

IX tilted his head slightly to the side, eyeing the young female. Long ringlets of deep gold hair had been done up in an intricate style that must have taken hours, and he could spot the dark sparkle of sapphires nested throughout. The jewels matched her evening gown perfectly, and though each hair was in place, and her face was expertly made up, there was something a bit off about her. The man at her side was eighty if he was a day, and her face was too young and open.  _Not a professional call-girl, underage, new to the game,_  IX concluded. She seemed happy enough to be there. Even if she'd been miserable, IX didn't care. Unless she posed a threat, she was unimportant.

"Indeed," he replied dryly. But neither his empty eyes, nor his cold word deterred her.

"You would not believe how happy I am to be here. Oh! My name's Andria, Andria Preston," she offered a dainty gloved hand. IX reached out, his hand almost as small as her as he gave the delicate silk covered fingers a small shake.

"Richard Outis," IX replied, plucking a random first name and pairing it with the pseudonym for Nobody. The girl beamed at him while the old man on her other side fell into a light doze.

"This is my first trip to New York, and everything is more amazing than I ever dreamed. It's nothing at all like the movies," she turned and pointed towards the Statue of Liberty. "Have you ever seen anything like it?"

IX gave the large statue an indifferent glance. Perhaps if he hadn't spent most of the day going over it, and both islands, he might have found it a tad more interesting. "No," he replied, giving her the answer she wanted. For the next twenty minutes, he listened to the foolish girl-child prattle on about her dress, the small town she'd come from, the amazing hotel they were staying at, and anything else that came to her fluff filled mind.

He gave the obligatory answers when required, but aside from that, let her endless flow of words pass over him without comment while he kept his attention on the mission.

IX felt the soft itch in his mind as the communication nanos in his brain activated.  _IX, orders are as follows: Locate X and rendezvous with the guards on Liberty Island. A number of guards have dropped off the communication network. Locate and neutralize the threat._

"Pardon me," IX stated, cutting Andria off mid-word before he stood and walked silently up the aisle towards the back of the gathering where he knew X waited.

* * *

Irritation itched along every inch of skin while X prowled the edge of the settling crowd. There were too many people, and the stench of an endless number of clashing perfumes made him light headed. Why anyone would want to change their base scent was beyond comprehension to the feral.

"Meet me at the Port-o-Potties," IX's voice whispered softly through the small earbud, snapping him out of his aggravation. The handful of people and guards still milling about moved almost unconsciously out of his way as he passed like a flock of pidgins strutting out of the way of a junk yard dog.

All the wealth in the world couldn't hide the acrid stench coming from the neatly tucked away row of portable restrooms. There were simply too many people, and the size of their checkbooks still couldn't change the fact that what came out their back ends stank as much as the lowest beggar. Then his eyes were caught by his slender, dark-haired mate. IX's eyes locked on his for an instant before he entered one of the little huts.

A primal grin curled his lips as X followed. Jerking the door open, he slid into the cramped space, ignoring the burning chemical scent that failed to mask the fecal smell below.

IX shifted back as far as he could to give the much larger male enough room to shut the door before X's arms were around him. He felt IX stiffen, but didn't let go. Instead his head dipped down, and even though he could sense IX mild ire at this interruption of the mission, his own head tilted back just enough for X's tongue to lightly trace his mate's plump bottom lip.

Teeth nipped the lip once, before the world spun away into darkness.

* * *

The first scent that struck X when they appeared in the shadow of the great statue was the metallic tang of blood. A pleased growl trickled from his lips, relishing the knowledge that the boring part of the job was done, now they'd have some excitement.

After giving IX's lip a last teasing lick, he turned and trotted over to the crushed form. The body looked like someone had dropped a small car on it before taking the car away, leaving the twisted corpse behind. Crouching, X's nostrils flared. There, under the sweet tang of blood, was the scent of a mutant. Something akin to him, but cold blooded. Not quite reptilian, but close. The odor reminded him of a swamp, cold, wet, and muddy.

Lightning crashed overhead, striking the tower. X shielded his eyes, snarling against the blinding pain. IX touched his arm. "Lead."

It was a common command. IX knew him well enough to recognize when he'd caught a scent, and this one would be easy to track. Stalking forward, he led the way into the statue.

Dead guards littered their path, crushed as the others had been. It was only once they made it inside that they began to observe marks of resistance. IX paused, reaching out to touch a bit of scorched wall. "There are at least two groups of mutants. One group attempting to stop the other," he said, eyes tracking over the battle damaged room while his agile mind tried to puzzle out what was happening. "Come." Tracking was no longer necessary, there was only one place to go. Up.

"Scream for me." The words were a deep rasp, but loud enough for them to hear as they entered the head to a peculiar sight. Mutants had been pinned like butterflies to the walls. Though, unlike the delicate insects, their bonds were not killing ones.

A massive blond haired feral had his hand around the neck of a white haired female, and was the only immediate threat. There were two other people in the room, a male and female pair who'd been pinned face to face against the gently curving wall.

The sound of X's claws unsheathing made the other feral whip around. "More play toys? How nice," Sabretooth gave a toothy grin before he rushed forward. X met the charge and the brutish pair met in the middle with a meaty thud. Cloth and skin parted, but not enough for a killing blow. Something clattered unnoticed to the ground before Sabretooth's hands clamped down on X's forearms. With a resounding roar, he lifted X clean off the floor and flung him bodily out onto the observation area of the statue's crown.

Twisting in the air, X rolled with the throw and came up on his feet just as Sabretooth shot out after him. He smashed into X like a bulldozer, toppling him over the edge and onto one of the long spines of the headpiece.

* * *

Storm sucked in air gratefully when the clawed hand released her. She'd expected to see a human guard, but had been shocked when Sabretooth was attacked by a mutant she'd never seen before. Not that she knew every mutant around, but she was familiar with most of the individuals in Magneto's camp, not to mention all the people on her side.

Who was this guy?

It was only after the two vanished, their battle taking them out of the room, did she notice the second person. Cold green eyes swept over them, and her heart sank. The look in those eyes was enough to tell her that whoever they were, they weren't on her side.

Still, beggars couldn't be choosers, so when she saw Mystique come up behind the stranger, she reacted. "Behind you," her voice was rough from the bruising Sabretooth had given her, but the mutant reacted instantly.

Without a single wasted movement, he turned. A gun seemed to spring fully formed into his hand, the draw so smooth she hadn't seen it. Blazing yellow eyes widened in terror when the barrel came up, and Mystique attempted to shift into X's form. The single shot seemed to roar in the metal room. Storm's gut clenched when she saw the almost delicate hole appear in the half changed chest. Mystique collapsed, her flesh melting black into shimmering blue.

* * *

X's eyes narrowed to slits as he crouched on the spine. The stink of the other feral clouded his thoughts, making instincts scream to defend his territory and destroy the threat to his mate.

Claws extended, he held his ground when Sabretooth charged again. The mutant kept his body low, smashing into him with punishing force in a brutal attempt to force him over the edge. Together they fell, punching and clawing like a pair of alley cats as they tumbled towards the point of the metal.

One final rotation, and Sabretooth got lucky. Boots planted themselves in X's gut, and with a powerful thrust, he was flung out into empty space.

Flinging his arms outward, X plunged towards the punishing ground, but then claws screamed through metal about twenty feet down. Pain crashed through him as his arm jerked him to a stop on the statue's ear lobe. Tendons stretched and tore, but he held on grimly even as he felt his shoulder jerk from the socket.

Fireworks exploded overhead, filling the sky with dazzling flares of light. X breathed through the pain, keeping still as he focused on the grip his claw had in the metal. If he slipped now, there wouldn't be another chance to catch himself. The fall wouldn't kill him, but it would slow him down and that was unacceptable.

With exquisite care, he turned his body and sank the claws of his left hand into the ear. Gritting his teeth, he pulled up just enough to ease the pressure on his injured arm. Slowly, he eased the claws out and let his arm fall to the side. The sharp agony dulled as his healing kicked in.

More fireworks, but this time there was a much louder concussion closer to his position. Where the statue's torch had been, was now falling debris and an intense white light as if God had reached down and touched his finger to the torch to make it real.

X's lips curled as he began to claw his way up the side of the statue. He had to get up there before IX got into more than he could handle.

* * *

"Who are you?" Jean asked. She carefully kept her eyes on him, not wanting to look at the dead woman on the floor.

IX glanced up from where he knelt by the body, about to check the vitals to ensure the kill. Gathering her strength, Jean's mind gave his a light nudge when his eyes locked with hers. It was a bit of a trick weak telepaths like her employed to get someone to think about what they wanted to know.

The blood drained from her face when she saw his thoughts. Not his name, or his past, or even how he saw himself. It seemed like her question had no impact on his current thoughts. She swallowed hard, jerking the mental probe away from those coldly calculating thoughts.

_Oh God, he's thinking about killing us. All of us._ Jean wasn't unfamiliar with homicidal thoughts, though thankfully she hadn't seen them often. But, this was different. His mind was like a machine, calculating values not of lives but of convenience. They'd seen him, and the other. Jean and her friends had become loose ends, and that was unacceptable to his cold mind. He thought about their deaths in the same way she'd think about taking her cat to the groomers for a flea bath. They were an inconvenience that needed to be eliminated.

That was all. So simplistically brutal. Her stomach clinched in horror when he reached for a knife. That had been part of the calculations too. No value in wasting bullets on stationary targets.

"Please don't," she sobbed, tears falling unnoticed down her cheeks as he approached them.

"What's happening?" Scott demanded, his voice a low hiss of mingled fear and fury.

Another sob escaped her. "I love you Scott. I love you so much."

"Jean!?" His voice rose, fear winning out.

X stopped in front of her, his chilling eyes never leaving hers, almost inviting her to take another peak if she wished. He brought the knife up. "No!" Jean said, all her focus locked around his wrist, freezing it mid-motion. The empty expression on his face didn't change as he tried to move his hand forward, but not able to do so.

Tilting his head slightly,  _Jesus, he's so young, too young to be a monster,_ she thought hysterically. Then he stepped back, and she let him go with relief forgetting all about the gun. "I see." Again he brought the knife up.

"No!" She shouted, as if he were an attack dog about to lunge at a toddler. Again, it stopped mid-air, inches from her neck.

"A telepath and telekinetic. Impressive."

Jean shuddered in revulsion. He talked about her as if she were a car that had an unexpected but pleasant feature. Then his stance shifted, and he brought more force to bear on the knife. Her breath hitched in her chest when it moved forward half an inch. Even though she was using her full strength, she knew it wouldn't be enough.

"What have we here?" A familiar voice rasped. Instantly, their contest of wills shattered. IX turned, and his hand shot out. The knife that had been so close to spilling her blood flew with nightmarish accuracy before it lodged hilt deep in Sabretooth's neck. Squawking, he clawed at the object now choking him before a lucky grab jerked it free. A fountain of blood gushed from the hole, and it took everything Jean had not to throw up.

IX didn't bother watching him fall. Instead he turned back to Jean, and to her utter horror, there was  _another_ knife in his hand.  _That's his mutation, he's able to create weapons out of thin air_ , she thought wildly.

Before he could open her throat up to add her blood to the growing pool on the floor, the statue seemed to rock. The explosion rumbled through the structure, vibrating everything. IX's eyes narrowed, but he turned away.  _Only for now, dear lord, only for now. He'll be back and then he'll cut all the loose ends._ She could feel the hysteria trying to build inside her, and bit her tongue hard enough for it to bleed. No screaming. If she started now, she knew she'd never stop.

* * *

X dropped back onto the observation deck and made his way to IX. His lip curled when he saw the body, but he'd learned long ago not to begrudge IX when he stole a kill. The smaller male wasn't one to play with prey, and wouldn't tolerate X taking too long to indulge his own amusement.

When they reached the door to the arm of the statue, they found it locked. X slashed through it before IX could reach out to unlock it. Green eyes flashed at him, but IX said nothing. Together they mounted the stairs. The strange light grew with each step. It seemed to blaze all around the final door separating them from whatever was happening.

Without fear, IX pushed the door open. They'd found the target, now it was time to do their job and neutralize it.

A strange machine had taken the place of the Liberty statue's torch. Metallic rings spun so fast they blurred, and at the base of a machine was the body of an elderly man. IX could barely make out a shape at the center of the machine. Another person.

"Destroy it." IX ordered, even as he focused his power into the strongest shield around himself he could. X might be able to heal anything thrown at him, but IX couldn't if the damage was too grave.

Lips peeling away from his teeth, X leapt forward, claws extended. The shape on the ground shifted. A hand came up, and X froze midair. A furious roar escaped him, and before IX could remove the problem, his arm jerked forward far enough to catch one of the rings.

Like a plane crashing on the runway, the strange machine disintegrated into hunks of flying shrapnel. Chunks of metal tore into X's body, throwing him against IX shield hard enough for IX to feel the force of it against his power. The light died. Swaying, X managed to stay upright as he began to pull the shrapnel out of his chest. Low grumbles of irritation fell from his lips as he did, and IX couldn't stop the slight up tilt of one side of his lips. He let the shield fall, and pressed a hand against X's lower back. The sounds changed to an appreciative purr before IX pushed him lightly.

"Check on that one," IX said, nudging him towards the still figure in the remnants of the machine. If they were still alive, they would be turned over to the authorities for interrogation.

X reached out and roughly grasped the girl's hand, preparing to cut the chain holding her wrist in place. Something sank a hook deep inside of him, freezing him to the spot, then his whole body stiffened when it began to pull. Energy seemed to pour out of him like life's blood, and the healed wounds in his chest split open.

Darkness ate his vision as both energy and blood left him, X collapsed.

IX leapt forward after X fell. When he saw the gaping wounds something happened. Something that had never happened before.

IX forgot about the mission. He forgot about the loose ends, the girl, the machine, the man he'd been about to handcuff. All he could see was X's blood pouring out and knew instinctively that X would die if he wasn't treated instantly.

He also knew that he couldn't heal him here. Impossible. This place would be swarming with police soon. Hands pressed against the terrible wounds, they vanished.

They landed together on the floor of their shared bedroom, and IX had to suppress a surprising jolt of something in his chest when he felt X's heart hesitate beneath his hand. He reached up to touch his own chest. It felt like when he'd been shot, that same sharp and unexpected agony.

_Doesn't matter, focus._

Closing his eyes, IX sank into the large familiar body. Pure power flooded the damaged tissue, cradled organs, and carefully knitted together ruptured vessels. If he'd been anyone else, panic would have frozen him at the extensive damage, and at the fact that X's body wasn't healing on its own. But IX's focus was total.

Over an hour passed before the final wound closed. His power drained from the healing, IX collapsed over the broad chest and sank into unconsciousness.


	19. Fox Hunt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to push back events from the second movie. The X-kids are still going to go to the museum, but the attack on the president won't happen until later.

"So we're hours awake and our only mistake is we bleed

And the hunger for the living helps them hunt it with the greatest of ease"

– Cky  _Escape from Hellview_

* * *

"Jean?" Scott's voice cut through the jabbering fear infecting her mind.

"Here," her voice was a choked whisper. "We have to get out of here before he comes back."

Scott frowned, fighting the instinctual urge to open his eyes and look at her. In all the years they'd known each other, he'd never heard her sound so frightened.

Limbs trembling from fear and the strain of her weight against the metal bands digging into her chest, Jean's eyes darted frantically around the room. Then they stopped, a wild, relieved smile touched her lips as she focused.

The visor lifted off the ground like a strange technological humming bird. "Storm, move your head as far to the left as you can." Inch by inch, the visor shifted until it was positioned exactly where it needed to be. On the side, a small nob began to twist, creating the thinnest beam possible. If she wasn't careful, they'd end up decapitating Storm instead of freeing her.

"Scott, open your eyes, just a little." Without looking at him she knew he was frowning, wanting to reject her demand out of hand, but he didn't. Instead, a thick beam of red struck the visor, thinning to razor wire before it struck the opposite wall. White hair fell like snow before the metal gave way. "Close them." The light died. Taking a deep breath, Jean shifted the visor again, targeting the next band. "Open." They both heard Storm's pained gasp, but they knew they couldn't stop now.

The second band broke. Two agonizing minutes and three shifts later, Storm fell to the ground clutching her burned left breast. While the pain was excruciating, it had to be ignored. Biting her lip, she forced herself to her feet and skirted around the two corpses to get to the other side of the room.

"Sorry," Jean whispered, giving the scorch mark a guiltily look.

"Be sorry later. You can pay for our next trip to the spa," Storm replied, offering a halting smile as she began pulling at the bands holding Jean in place.

Closing her eyes, Jean focused and threw all her power into the bands. Blood roared in her ears, but it only fueled her desperation.  _We have to escape, get away before he comes back, we have to escape._ Metal groaned, creaked, and then finally bent enough for her to wiggle free. Together, they fought the bands to free Scott.

"Come on, let's get out of here."

Once his visor was back in place, Scott gave Jean a hard look. "We can't leave now, we have to stop Magneto."

Heat filled Jean's face. Somehow, she'd managed to forget there was an evil mastermind bent on world domination above their heads. Instead, her thoughts remained locked on the tiny assassin whose mind promised swift and unquestionable death. It took more strength than was pretty for her to turn and follow Scott up the path the green-eyed boy had taken.

Her mouth dropped open when they saw what was left of Magneto's machine. "Rogue!" Storm cried, shoving her way past them and onto the platform. "What are you waiting for? Help me," she snapped back over her shoulder. Scott joined her, while Jean bent to check Magneto's pulse. To her surprise, he was still alive. Confusion flitted through her mind while she stood and took a good look at the scene.

Blood was splashed over the ground where someone got caught in the blast, but there were no bodies. Her gaze went uneasily to the side, maybe they fell over. Either way, it didn't matter. They had to get out of there before the police arrived.

Scott scooped the unconscious girl into his arms, careful to avoid skin to skin contact. "Should we?" He tilted his head towards Magneto.

"No, leave him," Jean decided. With that, they trooped back down the stairs, passing the still body of Sabretooth, and the corpse of a guard with a gunshot hole in his chest.

* * *

Remy fingered the sharp edge of the adamantium needle. Closing his eyes, he swallowed around the meaty thud of his heart pounding in his throat while he focused on the collar. Over the course of the last year, he'd been using the swiped needle to wear a groove in the metal. Three months ago, he'd broken through to the delicate inner workings of the device. His tongue darted out to swipe at his bottom lip while he focused on the task at hand, knowing this would be his only chance.

Memory teased the corners of Remy's mind, distracting him. He couldn't help but think of the day he'd snatched the small tool, discarded from the Doctor's latest attempt to drill into X's bones to get a sample of bone marrow. For reasons he could no longer recall, he'd been strapped to one of the beds at the time. X had been sent away after the Doctor finally gave up on his deranged mission, and the man had turned his evil gaze on an unconscious mutant strapped to a table in the middle of the room.

"Stop." Remy whispered into the darkness, trying to will the memory away. It refused, and continued playing out behind his clenched eye lids. First, the scalpel. Remy remembered how it had glimmered in the biting light of the florescent lights. Then the Doctor had plunged it into the teen's guts before giving it a brutal twist. Thankfully, the boy was too far gone to wake up, but the worst was yet to come.

After nearly gutting the boy, the Doctor called for IX. Remy remembered how those cold eyes flicked from the bleeding youth on the table, to the Doctor's blood stained hand without a single question forming in the bottomless gaze.

"Go on. Heal him."

Remy's skin crawled with remembered pain while he watched IX move up to the bed and lay his hands against the boy's vulnerable stomach. The wound was only half healed when the Doctor leapt forward and screamed "BOO!" IX's head had jerked up, eyes locking on the man before the body beneath his hands seemed to erupt in a geyser of blood, shattered bone, and shredded flesh. From neck to knees, there was nothing resembling a human left.

Somehow, even through the horror of the moment, Remy managed to slip a hand free of the restraints just long enough to snatch one of the bloody discarded needles the Doctor had used on X that morning.

"Holy shit! You weren't kidding when you said you couldn't be distracted while healing. What a mess," the Doctor said. Remy would never forget that chortling tone, like an evil little boy who lights a cat's tail on fire just to see it panic and run. IX hadn't replied. He'd just stood there, blood splashed across his face making his green eyes all the more vivid in the crimson mask, waiting for further instructions. "Meh, you're no fun. Take that one back to its cell. I'm done with it for now," he'd said, pointing to Remy.

When IX had reached for him, blood still hot and dripping, Remy couldn't help but flinch away. Something had flashed in the other mutant's eyes at that, but it was gone before Remy could catch it, replaced with the normal frigid ice.

He could still feel those blood slick fingers whisper over his wrists, freeing him from the straps. Still remembered the near mindless urge to slip the bonds on his own to keep from being touched.

Shaking his head, Remy forced his mind back to the task. It was now or never. Taking a deep breath, and offering a silent prayer to anyone who might be listening, Remy flared his power. The tiny spark leapt up the shaft of the needle. Something inside the collar hissed and crackled. Terror stole his breath as he waited to see if the bomb would detonate, taking his head off at the shoulders. Seconds melted into a full minute, and slowly, one muscle at a time, Remy relaxed.

_Jus' one more test_ , he thought. Again he closed his eyes before focusing. The needle flared scarlet. His teeth flashed into a grin and he had to suppress the urge to blow the door off its hinges. That wouldn't do at all. Escape required subtlety, and he knew there was no way he'd be able to fight his way free of the base if he brought the whole contingent of guards down on his head.

Sorrow filled his dark eyes when he looked at the other cages full of sleeping mutants, but he forced himself to move silently forward. Careful not to wake a soul.

* * *

Zero froze in the doorway, his dark chocolate gaze locked incredulously on the pair slumped in a puddle of blood on the floor. A tightness in his gut that he hadn't been aware of lessened when IX's back rose slowly. Good, at least the brat was still alive.

Two quick strides brought him to their side. Zero knelt and pressed a finger lightly against IX's throat. The pulse was strong, though his skin was slightly cool to the touch. Again worry flitted through Zero's chest. Why was IX's power so badly drained that it sent him into a near coma? What caused the tiny assassin to abandon the mission?

Sighing, he bent down and lifted the small body. Nostalgia flared in him when he cradled IX in his arms. The only thing missing was the stench of burned wood. Zero slipped IX into the bed before turning his attention to X. "So that's what sent you home," he whispered. Long gashes decorated X's muscled body. They'd been healed, but not completely. He knew enough about wounds to know that many of those marks would have been fatal on a normal mortal. Then again, X had never been normal. Confusion burned unpleasantly in Zero's mind. He hated not knowing what was going on, and this whole messed up mission had been one big tangled disaster.  _Damn it, I'm not a bloody detective. I'm a shooter._ Deciding that X's mysterious loss of power didn't matter, he left to give his report and let Stryker know where the wayward pair ended up. A twinge of guilt bit at his heart, but he ignored it. Not his fault IX failed to follow orders. Still, he was glad he wasn't IX.

"Sleep well kid, you'll need it."

* * *

IX woke slowly, his body both heavy, yet empty at the same time. He'd rarely drained his power to the bare dredges, but he knew the feeling. It would take a couple days for his energy to return. Until it did, he'd have to cope without having use of his power. An unpleasant thought bubbled under the surface of his waking mind, nagging at him and demanding his immediate attention.

_The mission. You abandoned the mission._

Turning his head to the side, IX found X. The large mutant was still breathing, and he could see the vivid red marks still traced over his skin – a silent testament to the near fatal wounds. Conflicting instincts added their weight to his chest, making it difficult to breath. He should have finished the mission, no matter the consequences, but he had to save X. He  _had_  to. There hadn't been a conscious choice in the matter. Instead, he'd seen the blood gushing from wounds that shouldn't have bled, and acted.

IX closed his eyes and took a long breath before forcing his aching body upright. There was no point putting off the inevitable. The world spun around him, only settling after he stopped moving. Once he was sure he wouldn't pass out, IX sank to his knees next to X and rested a hand against the warm throat. He relished the strong thump of the other man's pulse, and knew he would be alright even if he hadn't woken yet. Brushing a finger across X's lips, he forced himself back up to his feet.

Stealing himself for what would come, IX left X still blissfully asleep and unknowing.

* * *

Unbearable pressure crushed him against the ocean floor. He could feel the miles of water between him and the open air, and for a long time the cold depths kept him stunned and senseless. Now, he could see something.

He could see a glimmer of light.

Bearing his teeth, he strained against the lethargy and got his body moving. Up, up, up towards the flashing light. As he swam, the cold began to recede as the light grew. The pressure eased and with a huge gasp, Logan broke the surface of the water.

Whisky eyes snapped open. With sense, came pain, and he wondered if he'd been hit by a truck. Every part of him ached, and worse, his memories were a raw black hole. The edges ragged and painful. When he tried to think, all he could grasp were tiny flashes of distorted memory that he couldn't make sense of. It was like he'd been drifting under water, close enough to the surface to see, but unable to control his body.

He remembered shouting, seeing problems, and shouting solutions just to survive. Somehow, he knew that whatever happened to the one in control, would happen to him to. After a while, the flashes faded, and he'd sunk deeper and deeper into the ocean until he felt and saw no more.

A scent lingered around him, under the harsh stink of blood. It was imprinted in the room, tattooed into his skin. His tongue darted out to taste his bottom lip and his groin stiffened at the heady taste.  _What the fuck is going on here?_

Sitting up, he flexed, relishing the play of muscle under skin. Every movement felt amazing and new, and he couldn't get enough. His hands curled into fists, and he cursed in shock when three dagger like spikes ripped from his flesh. They retracted when his hands sprung open, leaving tiny pink scars that faded before his confused eyes.

While he was staring at his hands, something massive slapped him back. It was like being hit full force by an enraged tiger. Screaming in mingled fury and fear, Logan fell back into the ocean, swallowed again by the black depths but not as deep as before. He could still see the hints of sunlight and the promise of freedom.

X blinked in confusion before dismissing the odd sensation that came with waking. The scent of blood hung in the air mingling with IX's enticing aroma, but his little mate was gone. Irritation flared inside the feral, knowing that he couldn't track his mate down. No, he'd been trained to remain in their rooms until given a different order by IX, so he'd have to sit and wait for the smaller male to return.

* * *

"IX, IX, IX what will I do with you?" The Doctor's sing song tone made the small hairs on IX's neck stand up. His meeting with Stryker hadn't gone well. Even though IX and X had destroyed the machine, thus technically completing the mission, Stryker was still angry about their disappearance. On top of that, he was furious with IX's heavy handedness when dealing with the telepath, resulting in the mutant's mental breakdown. So furious that he decided to give IX to the Doctor to punish. IX would have preferred Stryker. The man would have been more vicious, but the punishment would have ended quickly.

The Doctor pouted when IX didn't react to his words. Unlike the rest of his victims, IX never gave him the satisfaction of screaming or showing fear. "Fiiiine…be that way. I suppose, hmm, yes that'll do. Twenty lashes for breaking the telepath, and let's see, how about thirty for abandoning a mission? That sounds fair, don't you think? By the way, don't you dare heal the damage all at once like I know you can. Sure, it'll heal faster than normal, but don't heal it any faster than that. Kay?"

"Yes, sir." Letting his mind sink into silence, IX pulled off his shirt and walked to the wall. Unlike the others, the Doctor wouldn't need to strap him in place. Instead, he pressed his palms against the cool cement, and waited.

"Mkay, I want you to keep count. If you skip a number, I'll keep going until you give it the proper count. If you lose your place, we'll start over," he said cheerfully, as though he were talking about trading Halloween candy after the big night instead of torture.

The Doctor gave the whip an experimental crack, and pursed his lips when IX didn't jump at the sound. No, the mutant stood motionless as a robot, waiting for his punishment like a good dog. The lash snaked out and cracked against IX's pale back. Pain bloomed over his flesh, sinking in with savage teeth, but he knew the sensations would dull as the lashing continued. It was the Doctor's favorite punishment after all, though he'd never been given so many all at once.

"One."

Gritting his teeth, IX waited with inhuman patience for the next blow. Crack. "Two."

Again, and again the wipe struck, shredding delicate skin and exposing slick muscle to the cool lab air. By the thirtieth blow, IX's knees buckled, and he sank to the ground. Still he didn't miss the count. "Thirty."

By the end of the punishment, his voice was a ragged whisper and he was holding on to his senses by the thinnest of threads. "Fifty," he croaked.

"Damn brat, I'm gunna feel that tomorrow. My shoulder's killing me. Guards! Take that and put it in cell 38. IX you are not permitted to leave the cell. It's time you thought about the price of insubordination. You need to remember that you're only on this side of the cage because we allow you to be. Make sure you don't forget it again."

IX tried to acknowledge the order, but his voice failed him and consciousness fled when two guards grabbed him by the arms and jerked him to his feet.

Hours later, pain woke him from his stupor. "How the proud have fallen. Do you get it now? You're a slave, and now you're just another prisoner like the rest of us. How pathetic." The serpentine words coiled around him, but were as meaningless today as they had been yesterday. However, he thought it was a foolish move on the Doctor's part. The prisoners feared him, but showing him as weak and helpless would lessen their fear of him.

Cracking one eye open, he looked at the snake-like girl. She was grinning wide enough to show elongated fangs. Fangs he knew were poisonous, due to the fact that he'd helped milk her more than once. The Doctor was quite interested in the unique components he'd found in her venom.

Every breath seemed to hurt, and now that he was awake he could hear the hushed and not so hushed whispers of the other prisoners. They echoed the snake girl's sentiments. He blinked, fog clearing in his mind when he realized where he was.  _Where's Remy?_  This was his cell, and they wouldn't have moved him to another just to put IX in his. He hadn't been with the Doctor, and IX was the only one who took him out for any other reason.

"Well? Why don't you fix yourself up and escape? Huh?"

"This changes nothing," his voice was as coldly mechanical as always, but he couldn't hide the undercurrent of pain that filtered through.

"You're insane. Did you know that? There is something wrong in your head. How can you work for people who do this shit to you?" She demanded.

"Doesn't matter."

"Fool."

_"Mon Ami, why do ya let them treat ya so?"_  IX blinked, the sound of Remy's voice so clear he wondered if he'd been mistaken about being alone in the cage. Turning his head again, he assured himself that Remy wasn't there. But the question lingered.

Why?

_"I exist to serve, to obey my wielder in all things, my life, my death, all belong to my wielder…I exist to obey…that is my purpose," the words were hoarse and broken, acknowledging mental chains that were a thousand times harder to escape than any cage. Darkness roared up in his mind, dragging him back down into unconsciousness._

Adelaide scowled and fought against the pity trying to swell inside her for the little bastard. But she couldn't help herself. He looked so pitiful and small. Helpless. Her stomach turned while she studied what was left of his back. Eyes widening, she realized the small flashes of white were exposed bone, where the flesh had been completely whipped off.  _How the hell is he still alive?_ Her tongue flicked out, tasting the air. The stink of death was missing, even though he looked like he should be lingering on death's door.

Hate filled her as she stared at his broken form, but she couldn't ignore the tiny new thread of pity. She still had bruises in the middle of her back where his knee pressed against her, pinning her arms behind her, and holding her down while he forced her mouth open to milk her as though she were nothing more than a common snake.

Worse, in some ways, was the fact that he could speak to her in her language. Adelaide didn't know how or why he could, but it hurt. It hurt because she'd always wanted someone like her to talk to. An actual person, instead of just snakes. When she finally found him, he turned out to be one of the monsters who used and abused her. Still, she always spoke to him in the tongue of snakes, and to her secret delight, he always responded in kind.  _Maybe, deep down, he's glad to have someone to share the language with too,_ she mused while she watched him.

It was like trying to watch a flower bloom. Though she never saw it happen, she could tell that the wounds were starting to heal.

"I'm glad you won't die," she whispered, so softly that none of the others heard. Yes, she hated being here, and hated what he did to her, but she couldn't deny that he was only as harsh with her as he needed to be. If she fought, he would strike her hard enough to leave her dazed. Still, he never hit her for mouthing off, and when she did manage a lucky blow, he never retaliated with more violence than was needed to subdue her.

To her endless irritation, yet strange satisfaction, he treated her like a man would treat a snake needing milking. He never seemed to blame her for lashing out, simply did his job.

Adelaide wanted to hate him with her whole heart. Before seeing him like this, she wasn't able to do so.

Now she didn't know what to think.

* * *

It took over three days for his powers to return and to heal the damage done to his back, and a fourth before the Doctor was satisfied that he'd learned his lesson.

Laying in the center of Remy's old bunk, he toyed with the long, thin needle he'd found in the blankets. Found was a relative term, since he'd found it with his backside when he'd finally had enough strength to make it to the bed and sit down. The needle was the only clue he had to his sparring partner's disappearance. He'd asked the snake girl, but she flipped him off and wouldn't answer. IX doubted she knew. None of the others were willing to answer either.  _It's as I thought. Respect bought with fear is a fragile thing. Much of the fear is gone now that they see me as a victim. I'll have to be harsher with them from this point forward_ , he mused as he let his power flit over the sleek metal. There was something familiar about the shine that he couldn't place.

The door to his cell slammed open. IX let the needle slip back into the blankets before sitting up to give the manically grinning Doctor a bland look.

"Rise and Shine pet! It's time for you to get back to work. I think you're going to  _love_  your new assignment. Remember to bring back samples. Oh, go get your mutt and report to Stryker for the details." His message delivered, like a gleeful doom shouter, he turned and sauntered away.

IX stood and stretched, working some of the tension out of his stiff muscles. The past four days had been difficult for the small assassin. It was the first time he'd been forced to sleep away from X while not on a mission, and he'd found it difficult to do so. He also found himself missing his daily sparring sessions with Remy. He hadn't realized how much he enjoyed the practice until he could no longer do it.

He discarded the unease of the past few days, and left the cell.  _For the last time_ , he promised himself. That would be the last time Stryker would have to punish him for disobedience.

When he pushed open the door to the room, he wasn't expecting to be mauled by X. Air exploded out of his chest when the much larger man crashed into him, sending them to the floor. Sharp teeth sank deeply into his shoulder, making IX hiss at the savage bite. His hand tangled in the wild mane of hair, giving a single sharp pull of reprimand. Instead of loosening the hold, X snarled and bit deeper, until teeth scraped against bone.

IX gritted his teeth before forcing his body to relax into the punishment. Even though he'd rather not suffer the pain, he understood the message. It wasn't like anyone would have come and explained to the feral where IX was.

The whole team tended to treat X like a beast. They saw him as IX's pet, as though he were a circus tiger who only IX could put through his paces. They couldn't see the feral intelligence in his amber gaze, and didn't understand how to work with him. No, they all relied on IX to hold his leash and give him orders. So he accepted X's rage, and permitted the punishment, even though he'd already been punished enough by the Doctor.

Finally the savage teeth retracted, leaving a deep throbbing ache that radiated from the bite that pulsed in time with his heart beat. A low sigh escaped IX when X's tongue traced the marks. Even that light touch made the pain flare white hot in his mind, but he couldn't help feeling soothed by the familiar touch. He basked in the heavy weight of X's body blanketing his, and savored the musky scent that invaded his nostrils.

IX reluctantly nudged X, not wanting him to move, but knowing they had to go. "Off." A sharp growl met the command. "Off," IX repeated, letting a bit of steel leak into the word. With a final nip at IX's abused shoulder, he stood. IX followed suit. In minutes, he'd pulled on a fresh pair of close – ignoring the way X stared at him while he changed – got armed up, and left the room with X on his heels like a dog with separation anxiety.

When they reached Stryker's office, he gave the door three sharp taps.

"Come in," came the muffled reply.

Stryker studied the pair as they entered the room. IX looked pale and drawn, dark circles marred the flesh beneath those startling eyes. Even wan from his ordeal, IX still looked as blank as ever. Stryker often wondered what it would take to break the mutant, or was he already perfectly broken? It was a question that had no answer. Beside him, X stood staring at him with the eyes of a half-starved panther. The look always made Stryker uncomfortable because there was nothing human in it. No one home to reason with. He was always surprised that the indestructible killing machine never turned on his tiny handler.

Setting aside his observations for the time being, Stryker fought to hide his satisfaction. Oh how he'd envied the Director his perfect weapons, but Stryker was on the brink of crafting a weapon of his own that would make this pair look like a couple of kittens in comparison. Things were finally coming together, but he couldn't risk IX reporting his activities to the Director at this stage, so the current situation was perfect. He'd known about IX's growing attachment to one of the test subjects. A wily creature that managed to escape during the last mission. Now he had the perfect excuse to get the two spies out of his hair for the foreseeable future.

"Five nights ago, while the team was on mission, subject 143 escaped," Stryker stated, his cold gaze locked on IX's face, waiting for a reaction to the news only to find none. He reached into his desk and pulled out a small device that had been purposefully tampered with so that it would only work 40% of the time.

"Your mission is to locate the escaped mutant and terminate him. His power seems to be interfering with the tracking beacon imbedded in his hip, but it should get you close enough to his location to take him out. Bring the body back when you've finished. I expect regular reports on your progress. Dismissed," he said, sliding the device across the table to IX's waiting hand.

"Yes, sir," IX responded, giving nothing away.

* * *

Remember this well. There are two types of fights. As we have put our lives in battle, we must be able to distinguish between the two. The fight to protect life, and the fight to protect pride. –Ukitake Jushiro,  _Bleach_

* * *

It took them twelve days to catch up to him at a hole-in-the-wall bar on the outskirts of a small town. X growled eagerly when he caught the scent, but a light touch on his arm froze him before he could attack. "Listen to me, this fight is between Remy and I. Do not interfere." White teeth flashed in a silent snarl, but X backed down.

"Ah Mon Ami, Remy should'a know dey be sendin' ya for 'im," Remy said after taking a slow drag off his cigarette.

Something akin to pain flashed in IX's solemn eyes before it vanished, overridden by obedience. "You shouldn't have run."

"Twas run or die, ya know dat."

"I know," IX agreed. "Come." Remy fell in step beside the tiny assassin as they walked away from the bar, out into the surrounding wilderness. In the days after his escape, Remy played this moment out in his mind again and again. He thought he'd feel terror, or that he'd get a knife in the back or a bullet to the brain without ever seeing the one sent to kill him. But, now that he thought about it, he knew IX would never be satisfied with killing him from afar. Not after the many hours they'd spent together.

They might not be friends, but he knew IX respected him as a fellow fighter. He would die tonight, but it would be a death worthy of their strange companionship.

It took over thirty minutes to find the perfect clearing. During that time, neither spoke, and both ignored the ominous shadow striding in their wake. For them, it was a final moment of peace before the end. After years of sparring, they would see who the best was, and the loser would never leave the field.

They took their places, facing each other side ways with enough space between for the twin bows to cross. Like mirror images of one another, they bowed before kicking their staffs up into their hands. IX moved first, bringing the weapon down so fast the air screamed from the force of the blow. Remy, blocked the strike, a grin curling his lips.

"Remy missed dis, Mon Ami. It be good, fighting ya again."

It might have been a trick of the sunlight filtering through the ancient trees, but Remy thought he saw IX's lips quirk into a faint smile.

Then the battle began in earnest. Remy's next strike was infused with power and IX was driven back. For the first time since they'd started training together, Remy saw IX's eyes widen in surprise. It was then he realized how much he'd bought into the myth of IX. Years of fighting, and losing, made him believe that the other mutant was undefeatable. But he'd forgotten.

He'd been cut off from his power for so long that he forgot how much he could enhance his fighting style with it. Hope flared in his chest as he followed up with a brutal combination that nearly shattered IX's bo.

IX back tracked, having to compensate for the far more powerful strikes to keep his weapon from breaking. It was all he could do to keep one of the blows from landing. A small flicker of excitement curled through him when he realized that the battle wasn't going to go how he'd first envisioned it. Not since that first battle with X had IX felt he might not walk away from a fight.

No one else had been a real challenge for him. Leaping over a low strike, IX whipped the bo staff around and felt the satisfaction of the wood connecting solidly with Remy's left shoulder. The Cajun cursed as he rolled with the blow to minimize the damage.

He leapt to his feet, and stabbed out with the end of the bo. IX hissed as the wood grazed across his ribs, ripping a shallow furrow in the skin. Each regained their footing and began circling again. Remy drove forward, only to lash out at empty air. Leaping back at the last second, he avoided the neck high blow that would have shattered his spine.

"Dat how it is, eh?" his eyes flared red and he whipped the bo around full force. IX brought his up to block like he normally would during one of their sparring matches - forgetting that circumstances had changed.

IX's bo shattered while Remy's continued unimpeded on its deadly course. The sound of bone shattering was louder than the staff breaking. It struck with enough force that it sent IX careening into the ground. He rolled half a dozen times before ending up on his back.

X roared, charging Remy. Without missing a beat, he reached into his pocket and pulled a deck of cards. Charging each in a matter of seconds, he threw them all at the enraged feral. The resulting explosion sent X crashing into the forest with enough force to knock the beast unconscious.

Silence echoed around him as he walked to where IX lay. Remy felt his heart clench with sorrow when he saw the half caved in chest. IX's eyes were still open, and his breath came in small, sharp gasps. Blood oozed from both sides of his mouth, painting his pale lips crimson.

Remy sank to his knees. Instinct caused his hand to jerk to the side, catching the delicate wrist before the tiny assassin could plant the slender dagger between his ribs. The thrust was so weak, Remy thought it wouldn't have managed to reach his heart even if he hadn't caught it. Even that small movement must have been agony, if IX pale face was any indication, but even now, broken and dying, he tried to complete the mission.

Respect and pain mingled, leaving a bitter taste in Remy's mouth as he gently pried the blade from IX's hand.

_Finish it_ , Remy thought. Green eyes locked on his, and even now there was no fear. Unable to help himself, Remy reached out and dipped into that cool empty pool. He felt a mild current of something that almost felt like satisfaction.

Taking a deep breath, he brought the knife to rest over IX's heart. All he'd have to do is hold the blade tight and lean forward. His weight would do the rest.

A lone song bird sang in the depths of the forest. Wind tugged at his hair, bringing the rich scent of pine.  _Do it. Tis da only way ta be free. None of da others can take Remy. Only 'im. Do it_. In the distance, he could hear the gentle burble of a stream.

_Do it._

The blade bit into flesh, coming to rest against bone.  _Do it._

A cloud drifted past, and a shaft of sunlight struck IX's face. Eyes as clear and beautiful as emeralds stared into his. The blood, instead of detracting from the picture, added accents of ruby. Alabaster skin, and raven wing hair, he looked like a fallen angel about to be slain, and so young.

So terribly young. Remy never realized how young IX was until this moment. Always before, he'd seemed so much older. Small yes, but never...delicate.

Closing his eyes, Remy leaned forward and rested his forehead against the hilt of the dagger. "Remy canno'," he whispered, his voice hoarse with despair.

Not killing IX was tantamount to committing suicide. IX would never stop hunting him, never. By not killing him, he was asking to die. But he simply couldn't do it. Standing, he let the dagger fall.

All that was left to do was to provide a damned good chase.

IX watched Remy walk away, unable to comprehend why he was still alive. He didn't notice his lips lift in a tiny, genuine smile as he closed his eyes to focus on healing the devastating wound. _Next time, Remy, you won't win so easily._

* * *

The past months hadn't been kind to Remy. Limping, he shouldered the door to the American Museum of Natural History open. All he wanted to do was sit down and rest. He knew IX wouldn't attack him in a crowed place, so he could if he wanted to, but the risk of staying in one place too long was too great.

If only he could stay in places like this forever, then maybe he'd have a chance to recover. But, they always had to close, and if he lingered in any one place long enough, the hunters would catch up to him.

So far, the only reason he'd survived as long as he had was that he kept moving. For some reason, he noticed that they tended to lose track of him. Unfortunately, it never lasted long, and he knew they were circling, getting closer. He also knew that he wouldn't survive the next in counter.

Remy's left shoulder throbbed. In their last altercation, he'd managed to tear something important. That, and he was certain one of the bones in his left leg was badly cracked. Unlike IX, he couldn't heal damage overnight. It wasn't fair. No matter what he did to the tiny mutant, he always kept coming.

_Dat's 'cause Remy wouldn' kill 'im_ , he thought bitterly. They'd fought seven times in the last eight months, and each time he managed to win though barely. And every time he won, it was harder to accomplish. IX learned from each battle, and he'd almost managed to master defeating Remy even when he used his full powers during their fights.

It was a hopeless situation. One that could only end one way. "Fine, Remy just wan' ta rest now," he whispered under his breath.

Lost in his dower thoughts, he didn't see the woman until he crashed into her. Agony shot up his leg as the weakened bone finally gave way. He landed hard, feeling his shoulder scream a nauseating counterpoint to his leg.

Startled green eyes stared down at him, and Remy's mind froze for a second, seeing different eyes. "De wrong shade," he croaked, the spike of fear easing as darkness ate at his vision. It wasn't IX. He was still safe, for now.

Jean staggered for a second time when an image slammed into her brain. A small man with eyes two shades lighter than hers, a blood soaked knife in hand and death on his mind. The mental image matched her own memory, and she realized to her horror that this man was being hunted by the one who'd almost killed her and the rest of her team.

_Professor? We have to help him._

She felt his mind sink into hers, soft as a cloud as he reviewed her memory and looked through her eyes at the unconscious man. They both regarded him, saw the sunken drawn look on his face, and the half hidden blotches of old and new bruises.

_Yes, take him back to the Manor, have him tended to. I promise, we'll keep him safe._  Even though he'd agreed, Jean couldn't help but feel anxiety over bringing him home. What if they followed? _Knock it off, you're being paranoid. Once you get him away from here, he'll disappear. Everything will be fine. Even if they do make it to the manor, they'll never be able to defeat us there. It won't be like last time_.

After her little pep talk, she knelt and got one of his arms around her. Using her power, she eased his weight and got them both upright.

"Need some help ma'am?"

Jean turned, and offered a winning smile to the guard who'd come to offer assistance. She could see his watchful gaze, and knew he was wondering what was going on. "No, I've got it. My friend was in a car accident a couple days ago. I told him he should have stayed home, but you know how guys are. He promised to take me to the Museum, and refused to break his word. Next time I'll have to tie him to the bed," she offered a false laugh, and he chuckled with her.

"Have a nice day."

"I will, you too."

With that, Jean maneuvered her burden towards the door.

* * *

IX stared down at the faulty device, patiently waiting for the small white dot to reappear. It vanished over an hour ago, still he silently willed it to reappear. Instead, the screen remained tauntingly blank.

Tucking the device away, IX entered the building. He'd left X behind in a hotel room to sleep while he and Remy played hide and seek throughout the city. X never did well around mundanes, and it was asking for trouble dragging the feral around the city with him.

Not that he needed the backup now. The hunt was coming to an end, and it would only take one more clash to finish it. Over the months, IX had twisted on the hook of obedience, trying to find a way to circumvent the orders, but it was impossible.

Remy had to die by his hand, and nothing could change that. The only concession he had was the fact that he refused to take him out from a distance. Had he chosen to do that, he would have finished the mission that first week.

A slight frown touched his lips while he walked through the crowded museum. Why hadn't Stryker forced his hand? IX gave his reports diligently, but the Major never told him he was taking too long to finish. Instead, he was told to continue and without further orders being given. It was odd, IX wondered what the man was hiding, but didn't care enough to find out.

If the Director wanted more information on Stryker's activities, he would be given orders to increase his surveillance of the man. Until then, it wasn't his problem.

IX stopped at one of the kiosks. "Hello. Have you seen this man?" His lips turned up into his 'friendly' smile, though his tone didn't match the gesture. The teen seated on a wooden stool looked from him to the picture and back. Heavy eye liner made her brown eyes stand out, though it clashed with the bubblegum pink lipstick.

"Yup. Um, I think he fainted or something, cuz a bitchy looking red headed woman had to practically carry him out," she said, words punctuated by flailing hands.

"What did the woman look like?"

"Uh...I don't know. Like I said. She had red hair, about this long," the girl used her hands to demonstrate the length. "And, um, she was pretty tall. I, like think she was with a big group of kids or something. I saw her come in with them. Sort of like one of those field trips, you know? I think she was like a teacher. She had that stuck up look about her. Like she'd give you detention for passing notes. You know the type." One eye lid dipped down in a flirty wink.

IX didn't react to the gesture. Instead, he turned and walked away.

'Jeese! Welcome much?" She shouted after him.

* * *

IX nibbled on a delicate roll of sushi, pondering the information he'd collected. The only students here belonged to Xavier's Institute for Gifted Youngsters. Now that he had a destination, he'd be able to collect X and go finish the mission.

But first, he decided to get something to eat. It would take some time for Remy to get to the Institute, and he wanted to allow them to get him settled. They might even take him to a hospital. It didn't matter. No matter where he went, IX would find him. A small part of him that he refused to acknowledge pointed out that he was giving Remy a chance to recover when he should strike now while he was too weak to fight back.

Ignoring the inner monologue, he let his gaze drift over the mundanes. Half way across the room his gaze was drawn to a group of teens. Two groups appeared to be in the early posturing stages of a fight. He sipped his tea and watched it develop.

Then something unexpected happened. Fire erupted from the cigarette of one of the males, lighting the youth on fire. Another male stood up and held out a hand covering the flaming youth in frost. IX gave a low hum, his mind working out how to take the pair down even though they weren't his targets. Together, they'd make a difficult pair, but they were too young to work side by side without fighting each other as much as the enemy.

People were screaming, fleeing, and making a nuisance of themselves. That was one of the primary reasons IX never attacked Remy in a crowded place like this. It wouldn't due to be outed as a mutant. IX ignored them in favor of the drama playing out. Suddenly the stampeding herd froze, locked silently in place.

IX blinked, tilting his head to the side when a new group entered the scene. It was the man in the wheel chair that captured his attention.  _He's the one_ , IX thought. Though he couldn't explain how he knew, he was certain that was the mutant who'd frozen everyone.  _He's a powerful one. I'd have to take him by surprise or not at all._

There hadn't been many like this over the years. But when he and the rest of the team caught up to them, they'd learned the hard way that it was better to simply kill them than to try and capture them. Not that Stryker or the Doctor liked that philosophy, but it had only taken one omega class mutant nearly decimating the base to bring them around to IX's way of thinking. Some mutants were too dangerous to try and hold.

"The next time you feel like showing off, don't!" Even handicapped, the man's voice resonated with power. It made IX's bones ache and his mind itch.

Nine words were all that was needed for the youths to be cowed, and they followed meekly after him with tails tucked between their legs.

IX polished off the meal, watching the mundanes unfroze and began to mill about in confusion for a long moment before they got on with their day. It always amazed him how quickly they got over their fright. Like a herd of antelope after a lion makes a kill. They'd settle back down to grazing minutes after one of their own was pulled down.

Finished eating, he stood and made his way out of the museum.

Tomorrow. They would finish it tomorrow.

* * *

Fear jerked him awake, making his heart leap in his chest in anticipation of the Doctor's high pitched laughter.

"Ah, you're awake. How are you feeling?"

Remy's eyes locked on the large, blue being in a lab coat. For a second he wondered if one of the Doctor's experiments had wildly backfired, but looking into the creature's eyes, he saw a kindness that the Doctor's eyes never held. No, wherever he was, it wasn't back in the lab.

Not that lab anyway. Remy's gaze swept over the room, noting the medical equipment. His hands jerked up, and to his relief he found he wasn't bound to the bed. "Where be dis?" He demanded, trying to sit up.

"Relax. I'm not going to harm you. My name is Dr. Hank MCcCoy. You're at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, and it looks like you've had a hard time of it lately. I set your leg, and put it in a cast. There isn't much we can do for your arm. It'll have to heal up naturally, and you'll need to spend a few months in physical therapy to get it back up to normal."

He wished he could accept the offer to stay, but he knew it was impossible. "I be Gambit. Gambit be tankin ya, but he be needin ta go now." Again he tried to sit up, but a large blue hand tipped in blunt claws gently pushed him back down.

"Jean said she thought you were being hunted. Is that true?"

The startled look on Remy's face was enough to confirm the statement. "I told you this was a school, but it's more than that as you might have guessed." He waved a hand at the high tech lab before gesturing to himself. "We are a school for mutants. This is also the home of an organization known as the X-Men-"

Remy gave a half-hysterical bark of laughter at the name. Dr. McCoy arched one fuzzy blue eyebrow at the outburst. "Care to share the joke?"

"Gambit just be findin' it ammusin' dat the group who offers sanctuary be sharin' almost da same name as de ones who be huntin' 'im."

"Oh?"

"Dey be da X-Team and dey be made up of many a fierce mutant."

Dr. McCoy frowned, not recognizing the name. A group of mutants who hunted other mutants should have been on their radar. Then again, Jean said she'd run into the one who was hunting this man before.

"We have some of the most powerful mutants in the world on our side Mr. Gambit. I assure you, you'll be safe here. Now rest."

Remy huffed, but closed his eyes. No, he wasn't safe here. He wouldn't be safe anywhere, but he had nowhere else to go. Perhaps it would be best to wait it out and try to heal. When IX and X came, he would use the chaos of their attack to hobble away. He didn't like the idea of using the people who were helping him as cannon fodder, and hated the fact that more children would be put in harm's way, but what could he do?

"Know dis, da group be huntin' mutants. Havin' dem know of dis place would be a dangerous ting. Do ya understand?" Remy asked, unable to keep silent. "Ya be safer if ya cast Gambit back out der," he added, almost too quietly to hear.

"Perhaps we would be, but that is not in our nature Mr. Gambit. You need our help, and we are honored to save a fellow mutant. Now, sleep. Everything will be fine."

"No. It won'," he whispered, but he allowed himself to relax back into the bed. He marveled at the comfortable surface. It was nothing like the steel tables of the Doctor's lab, or the thin padding of his cell cot. Warm, safe, and mildly high on pain medication, Remy slept.

* * *

IX perched on a thick oak branch, studying the school through a pair of powerful binoculars. On the ground beneath him, X prowled. Each exhale from the large male ended in a low snarl, confirming what IX was seeing. From his vantage point he had an excellent view of the grounds, and the children who played there during their breaks.

After seeing the kids in the food court, he should have realized what 'gifted youngsters' were. At the time, he'd only thought it was a small group of mutants, perhaps out with a few adults to keep them in line. It wasn't uncommon for mutants who'd been cast out from their homes to band together, and he hadn't made the obvious connection.

Truthfully, he hadn't suspected there would be such a massive enclave of mutants hiding under the guise of a school. Though it was a brilliant form of camouflage.  _I'll have to report this to Stryker_ , he thought, watching as a bell rang and the students – blatantly using their powers out in the open - returned to the building.

For now, the report had to wait. He had to finish is original mission first, and taking the school with an eye to acquisition would be too difficult for them alone. No, better to slip in unnoticed, complete his task, and return to the base to provide further information about the school.

IX curled up on the branch, waiting for night fall.

* * *

Remy jerked awake, hissing when pain rolled through his body like a kitten stretching. It raked claws down his back, reminding him of the blows he'd been forced to take while defending his cracked leg.

Looking around, he huffed in annoyance when he realized the blue doctor was gone. He could really use another hit of those pain meds. If it weren't for his overwhelming exhaustion, he knew he never would have slept as soundly as he had. Unfortunately, the anxiety returned with wakefulness, and he just wanted to blunt the edge of dread that refused to abate.

With a low grunt of aggravation, Remy levered himself up out of the bed and hobbled towards the cupboards. Since this was a hospital of sorts, they had to keep the medication somewhere. He found a few bottles of pills with names that had too many syllables, and almost gave up when he found a nearly full bottle of brandy tucked in the back of one of the lower shelves. "Dat'll do," he muttered, opening the bottle and tipping his head back.

The alcohol burned a long heated line from tongue to belly. It was beyond soothing. He hadn't had a drink since the first altercation with IX, and he'd forgotten how comforting alcohol could be. _Ya shouldn' be doin' dis_ , he thought, but his hand and mouth ignored sense for once. It wasn't like he was in any condition to fight anyway.

An hour later, he polished off the bottle and wasn't feeling a lick of pain. Then the lights cut off and he bit back a scream.

Being hunted by IX gave a man a new fear of the darkness. Instinct told him what was coming, but alcohol and injury kept him on the bed. Even if he managed to get off the damn thing, he wouldn't be able to walk.  _Of all da times ta get drunk_ , he thought morosely, even as he wished for a second bottle to polish off while he waited for IX to appear.

* * *

IX let his hand drop from the side of the building after releasing the controlled blast of power. X was prowling the woods, and would provide a perfect distraction for any mutants who exited the building.

Mind clean of anticipation, thinking only of moving forward and completing his task. IX slipped into the pitch black building.

* * *

Professor Xavier closed his book when the lights went out. Blackouts weren't entirely unheard of, but the lack of a storm made the sudden darkness unnatural. Focusing outward, he found a pillar of thought blazing on the edge of the woods.

There was nothing human in those thoughts. They reeked of dominance, territoriality, and challenge. Whoever was out there was looking for a fight. "You've picked the wrong battle field my friend." Xavier said before sending his mind out to Scott, informing him of the intruder.

The fire of X mind was so bright and consuming that it masked the dark, still mind that had slipped into his home.

* * *

Scott glared daggers into the woods. He'd gotten the Professor's message, and wished this whole situation could have waited just another hour before happening. The cloth over his groin chaffed, and all he wanted to do was get back to Jean and finish what they'd started. Why did things like this always happen when he was about to get lucky?

Thoughts on the beautiful red-head waiting for him in his room, Scott didn't notice the branches above his head shake slightly.

* * *

_SCOTT!_  Xavier's mind cried out when he saw the trap his almost son was walking into.

The feral leapt, and he saw the sharp claws about to plunge into Scott's unprotected back. Reaching desperately into the feral's mind, he tried to take control, but found his grasp slipping against the animalistic thoughts, unable to gain purchase.

Then he felt something deeper. A voice screamed up at him: "HELP ME!"

Out of options, and unable to fully examine the situation, Xavier's mind plunged towards that voice, yanking it up and free. At the same time, the rest of his considerable mental power crashed into the feral mind overlying the other. With a vicious twist of thought, he ripped the other mind down and shoved it into a mental cage. It was a very crude version of what he'd once been forced to do with Jean, and if he'd had more time, it would have been a more thorough job.

* * *

Agony seemed to shred Logan's mind as the ocean he'd existed in forever came to a boil. He felt himself being torn upward, pulled through the mind that had taken over his body doubling the pain.

Opening his mouth, he screamed.

* * *

Scott jerked to the side, warned both by the Professor and the agonized howl that mid-shriek turned into a skull splitting scream. The body landed hard, making no move to break its fall. Silvery claws sank back into flesh as the mutant's hands came up and gripped his hair.

Still the scream went on and on. Scott's stomach turned. They all understood how powerful Xavier was, but it was so easy to forget how dangerous he could be. Finally, the agonized screams died down to weak whimpers. Every inch of the half-naked man seemed to quiver in reaction to whatever the Professor had done.

Even though the mutant seemed to be incapacitated, Scott didn't take his hand away from his visor. Nor did he try and get closer. He wasn't sure what happened, and the fact that the mutant (the same one from the Liberty Statue) he realized, was still conscious bothered him. Normally the Professor would have taken control of the man, or put him to sleep. Something had gone wrong, and Scott couldn't help but think it was partially his fault. If he'd been paying attention, he wouldn't have been blindsided like that.

Still shaking, the mutant slowly lifted his head and looked around with wide glazed eyes. "Where am I?" the voice was painfully rough with more than just screaming. It sounded like the man hadn't spoken in ages, but he made no move to attack, so Scott relaxed slightly.

"You're outside of Xavier's School of Gifted Youngsters. Mind telling me who you are and what you're doing here?" Scott demanded.

The mutant blinked, as if trying to make sense of the words before answering. "Don't know. Logan...I think."

With that, he collapsed, his mind going into shock from its abrupt upheaval.

* * *

The lights came back on when the emergency generators kicked on. IX pressed his hand lightly against another door. For once, the tracking device was working perfectly, and he knew Remy was behind this door. There would be no more fighting, no more tests of skill. It was time to bring the hunt to a close.

"Open."

When the door slid open, he caught the strong scent of alcohol, and knew Remy wouldn't have been able to fight even if he wanted to.

Remy spotted him and tried to crawl off the bed, only managing to fall off and end up in a drunken heap on the floor. "Ah Mon Ami, Remy try' ta tell dem. He did, he try, but dey don' listen." His accent was thicker, the words slurring together like a thick gumbo.

Unable to get to his feet, Remy knelt on the floor like a perfect sacrifice. Closing his eyes, he smiled and tilted his head back to offer IX a clean blow. "Remy be hopen he gave ya a good time Mon Cheri."

IX slid his sharpest dagger free as he stalked silently forward. "You did."

_"IX: Report."_

IX paused in front of Remy's kneeling form. "Sir, I have located the target and am about to terminate him. Be informed I've found an enclave of -"

* * *

A blazing headache made Xavier want to take a handful of aspirin and go to sleep, but something nagged at the back of his mind.

_The mutant from the Liberty Statue._

Scott's thought crashed into him with the force of a punch to the gut. His mind leapt out again, seeking Remy's and finding the cold mind he'd seen in Jean's thoughts of that time. It was the assassin.

He slid into the mind as the mutant began his report, and knew he had to stop it before the man gave away his location. Pain gripped his heart, but despite what Erik might think, he was willing to make the hard choices when it came to protecting his children.

At the last second he changed the hammer blow that would have crushed the mind below his into dust to a thin rapier of power focused on the small bundle of brain tissue that had been mechanically altered to allow instant communication. He burned that place away, incinerating the nanos and the brain tissue around them.

Leaning forward, he didn't fight the wave of nausea that wracked him, knowing that the damage he'd done was irrevocable.

* * *

"Mon Ami?" Remy slurred. The dagger slipped from IX's hand and his green eyes grew impossibly wide before going dark. Somehow, Remy managed to catch the small body as it fell. "IX?" He shook IX's slim shoulders, trying to wake him even though it was insane to want to do so.

The blank look in the assassin's eyes terrified him. "IX!"

Still no response. Shifting a little, Remy brought his hand up and pressed it against the soft skin of IX's neck. Relief made his hands shake and his stomach churn at the cartwheeling emotions when he felt the slow strong pulse. IX was still alive and so was Remy.

That was a better outcome than he'd expected when he'd first spotted the assassin and accepted his fate. Still, what happened? IX had never collapsed like this before. Even though he knew the little male was there to kill him, he couldn't let go of his concern.

"Hey! Be anyone der?" he shouted, trying to shift them both into a more comfortable position so they weren't sitting on his cast anymore. Not even the copious amounts of alcohol could keep the pain away if he insisted on sitting in such an awkward position. He shook his head, trying to chase away the drunken rambling thoughts.

Pushing IX gently to the ground, Remy managed to regain his feet. Three hobbling steps brought him to the door and he almost ran face first into the large blue doctor. Grabbing the white coat to keep from falling, Remy shook the mutant. "Remy's friend be needin ya help."

"Friend?" Dr. McCoy asked, looking past Remy and spotting the fallen form.


	20. Gradually then Suddenly

"The greatest crimes in the world are not committed by people breaking the rules but by people following the rules. It's people who follow orders that drop bombs and massacre villages"

\- Banksy (Wall and Piece)

* * *

The medical wing beneath Xavier's school was crowded with people. Remy sat next to IX's bed, not touching the tiny assassin, but not looking away either. In the bed next to IX was Logan, still out cold from the mental remapping that occurred a little over three hours ago.

"I've finished the tests," Dr. McCoy said, his hand shook slightly as he adjusted his glasses. Xavier, Scott, and Ororo turned as one to look at him. Jean kept her eyes locked on the still form, as if unable to believe it wouldn't rise again to attack. Even though they were on home ground, she couldn't stop the instinctual fear from twisting in her gut like a rat in a trap. How had he made it into the heart of their sanctuary unnoticed? It was inconceivable that none of them noticed his presence until it was almost too late.  _If the Professor had been a second slower,_ she thought, her green gaze darting between the fallen mutant and Remy.

That was another mystery that she couldn't wrap her mind around. Of everyone in the world, shouldn't he understand and share her fears? Jean had been under IX's terrifying blade for less than five minutes. The man sitting next to him had endured being hunted by the monster for  _months_. It made no sense for him to be upset about IX's downfall. Shouldn't he be happy?

"What were your findings?" Xavier asked, broad shoulders already slumped in anticipation of the news.

"He's in a coma. I've detected serious localized damage in the temporal lobe. Right now, the swelling is moderate and won't require surgery to relieve the pressure."

"Prognosis?"

"If he wakes from the coma, which is unlikely…there will be repercussions. He'll most likely have to relearn how to speak, if he's still capable of doing so. That area also houses memory, so it's unlikely he'll have much left of his past. Frankly I don't have much hope for a full or even partial recovery based off the CT scans. The damage was too great." Dr. McCoy stared resolutely at the scans to avoid the pained look on Xavier's face. They both knew the cause of the damage, and McCoy understood how it would weigh on Charles's mind. He hated to cause harm for any reason.

Remy bowed his head, sorrow causing his eyes to burn. IX was what he was, but he was also Remy's friend and though it always had to end in one of their deaths, he wished it hadn't ended like this.  _He would 'ave wanted ta die in battle. Not like dis. Not weak an 'elpless._

"I think it's time we heard your story Mr. Gambit."

Xavier's voice drew him out of his morose thoughts. Taking a deep breath, he straightened to look at the group who now stared intently back.

"Three years ago, Remy been captured by mutants under da command of da government. Da capture…wasn't easy. Remy bein' hurt."

"Is that where you got the scar across your abdomen?" Dr. McCoy interrupted, recalling the mark from his examination.

Remy gave the blue mutant a sharp look, his lips curling down in a frown. "Yes. A sword wielder's blade made it past Remy's guard durin' da fight. Remy would 'ave died, but he be savin' Remy." A flick of his fingers indicated IX.

"How?" Dr. McCoy asked, fascinated by the unfolding story.

"He be a 'ealer, sometimes. But it be 'ard on him. Said once dat his power ain't meant for healin' but for killin'."

Jean shuddered, goosebumps humped across her skin as she remembered the dead look in his green eyes when he came for her. Yes, he was made for killing. She couldn't even imagine him as a healer.

"Da healin' be mighty painful, and not somethin' dat should ever be interrupted once begun." His eyes shuddered, and he hunched in on himself. This time, no one asked why.

"So you were grateful for being healed by him?" Xavier asked, trying to understand Remy's devotion to his would be killer.

"No, da healin' was not wid'out cost. IX be demandin' dat Remy train him in exchange for da healin'. Remy is a master of da bo, and IX wished ta learn. Remy and IX be trainin' togeder for da past three years," he admitted.

"I see." Xavier said. "What do you know of them?"

"Dey are a pair. Weapons created to hunt and kill mutants. Dat's what de guards said, anyway. I believe dem. X is feral, but more so dan any mutant Remy be knowing. He is animal in mind. Widout da speech or behavior of a man. IX is his handler, and he only answers to IX. From what Remy's seen, IX is obedient to all above him. He could have killed any of dem, but he never lashed out against dem even when he was being punished."

"Punished?"

"Yes. Even dough IX was on da oder side of de bars, he was as much a prisoner as da rest of us. More, Remy t'inks. Remy escaped, but IX is still a slave, and always will be."

"He's a monster," Jean said, green eyes flashing with a mix of fear and distain. "How can you sit there and try to say otherwise when he's spent so much time trying to murder you?"

Remy's dark eyes locked on hers. "IX is not a monster. He be som'ting else."

"I've seen his mind. There's nothing human in him! He's a death machine."

"And Remy be seein' his 'eart."

Jean gave a bitter laugh at that. "Oh? Let me guess, deep down he's really a good person."

"Non." The look intensified, and Jean felt like a child who'd been stripped bare. She knew he was looking at more than just her flesh.

"IX's 'eart be cold. Doubtless as cold as his mind. But der be more dan dat. His 'eart is calm, dark and deep. He is untroubled and at one wid himself. Unlike some 'earts which are more dan just restless. Some 'earts are a tempest of conflictin' emotion, ragin' always and never at peace. It 'urts ta look, how must it be ta live wid it always?" His eyes flashed knowingly. Rage flashed in Jean's heart like the lazy flick of lightning before she smothered it.

Dismissing Jean, Remy's piercing gaze landed on Xavier. "Know dis, IX be a sword. Da hand dat 'olds him can set him ta violent tings. But, his power can be turned ta healin'. Perhaps, in da right hand, he can be turned from sword ta shield, eh? Ei'der way, IX be needin' a hand ta 'old him. Be it for violence or protection, he'll always need a guidin' hand."

"Tell me everything you know about this facility," Xavier commanded, turning the conversation away from the petite assassin who would likely never be wielded by anyone again due to Xavier's actions.

* * *

In the hours after IX went off line, Stryker ordered the base decommissioned. He didn't know if IX was dead, or had been captured; all he knew was that communication had been lost at what should have been the end of the mission. " _Be informed, I've found an enclave of-"_

If Stryker was a betting man, he'd wager all he had that the next word would have been mutants. Now he'd never know, but it was time to move shop. Thankfully, he'd been planning to go to ground for a while now. He was almost ready to begin the next phase of his personal operations and a break from the government was necessary. Even as far into the black as he was when it came to ops, there were some things that wouldn't be tolerated. Things that had to be done.

For the good of the country.

There was an abandoned base beneath Alkali Lake that would serve, and he knew it had been erased from all the databases after the fiasco with X. No one would dream of looking for them there.

His door opened. "Sir, everything is loaded and ready for transport. Should we begin sedating the test subjects?" Zero asked.

"No. The Doctor has all he needs from those specimens. It's time to liquidate the stock. You and Wraith will remain behind to terminate the subjects. I'll leave a chopper behind for you when it's done."

"Yes, sir." Zero saluted and turned to leave. The order wasn't entirely unexpected. Most of the cages in this location had been custom built to hold their current occupants. It was impractical to try and move the mutants without having a secure holding facility to put them. While distasteful, the task had to be done.

* * *

Wraith pulled his cowboy hat down low over his eyes. The base was empty now, except for him, Zero…and the children.  _Not children. Test subject, objects, things to be disposed of now that their usefulness has come to an end._  No matter how he tried to convince himself, the thoughts rang not only hollow but broken. Shards of glass that cut him up inside.

He never liked this job. By the time Wraith realized what he'd gotten into, he was in too deep to escape. Over the years, he played his part, drank at night to blunt the memories, and did his best to forget about the lives he helped destroy.

This was different. IX was the Doctor's pet. IX was the Executioner. IX was the one who handled the mutants after they were caught. Wraith only caught them, and forgot them.

"I'll start at the south end and work my way to the middle, you do the same from the other side." Zero's cold voice jerked him out of the turbulent thoughts.  _He doesn't even care. Are they nothing more than targets for him to practice on?_

"We shouldn't have any trouble with this lot. None of their mutations are able to stop a bullet," Zero smirked, actually  _smirked_  at him before sauntering down to the end of the line to begin the slaughter.

With the first sharp  _crack_  of a gunshot, the children realized what was happening and began screaming. The sound was a lance of fire shot directly through Wraith's heart. He could capture mutants. Could even leave them down here knowing they'd be experimented on and eventually killed by Stryker's pet sociopath. But this? No. Dear God, no. He'd finally found a line he couldn't cross.

Another shot rang out, almost lost under the sound of desperate begging and high, piercing screams. Wraith glanced back at Zero, fingering the barrel of his gun.  _No way, I'd never get him. Just end up shot myself._

Turning away, he focused on a new destination. Somewhere far away from this hellish place where he could forget. Now that IX was gone, he was certain he'd be able to stay off the radar long enough to be forgotten.

"Please."

Chocolate eyes snapped up and locked unwillingly on eyes the color of polished amber. The entire eye was swallowed by liquid color, only the black slash of snake like pupil broke the solid pools of her gaze. Wraith had always been creeped out by her serpentine appearance, but now, the look in her eye was purely human. Purely heartbreaking.

"Please," she whispered again. Unlike the others, she didn't scream. Instead she offered that single word.

"Damn it," he growled under his breath before he jerked forward and tapped the code into the keypad to unlock the door. Sucking in a breath, he reached in and grabbed the girl. Together they vanished, only to reappear inside a dark warehouse deep in the heart of the city.

Wraith let go of the girl, who stumbled and sank to the ground in a boneless heap. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a well-worn brown leather wallet. He flicked through the cards until he found one crinkled with age, its corners curled and the writing faded almost to non-existence. Once he found the card, he snatched eight twenties that he'd won off Wade in poker last night, all the money he had on him.

With a sharp inward breath, he tossed the money and card at the girl as if it was all her fault. "Go there. You might find something worthwhile. Wait here for now. I'll bring as many of the others as I can."

She gaped at him, money drifting around her, incapable of forming an answer.

Wraith vanished. A second later, he reappeared with Pietro, who promptly fell over when Wraith let him go. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been able to stand on his own without being bound in the middle of his cage. "Wha-" But Wraith was gone again.

Next, he gently deposited a girl whose left leg was missing from just above the knee down. She said nothing, simply sat, staring straight ahead. Tiny tremors rocked her delicate frame, but her face was blank. Pietro scooted closer to her and slipped an arm over her shoulders. With a desperate sop, the blank mask shattered. She turned, and curled herself around him like a baby monkey clinging a stuffy after its mother was slaughtered in front of it for the pet trade.

Wraith flinched at the sight before vanishing again. Slipping into another cell, he reached out for the boy curled in the corner. "Come on kid, I'm going to help you," he hissed. Frightened grey eyes looked up.

"That's it."

Sammy reached up and slid his tiny shaking hand into the warm dark one. He felt the hand close around his with a strong reassuring grip before he heard the roar. Heat splashed over his upturned face, and the familiar tang of blood invaded his mouth.

The hand around his loosened as the body fell. Zero looked down at the wide eyed child before he brought his gun up and pulled the trigger. An almost delicate hole appeared between frightened grey eyes that dimmed into the unseeing gaze of the dead. Zero gave Wraith's corpse a disdainful look. "I always knew you couldn't hack it."

* * *

Remy rubbed absently at his shoulder, trying to ease the ache and failing. He felt drained. Xavier managed to drag details of the base out of him that he hadn't even known he'd had. After the questioning, which had been more deftly handled than any interrogation he'd been in, the others left him alone.

It was better when they were all here questioning and prodding for more details. At least then he didn't have to think. A headache thumped sullenly behind his eyes. The first taste of the coming hangover. They hadn't even bothered giving him some more pain medication before vanishing.

Wishing he could pass out, but knowing it wasn't happening any time soon, Remy turned his attention to the figure on the bed. How many hours had passed since the initial injury? He didn't know for certain, but far more than IX usually needed to recover from serious wounds. How many times had Remy watched him put his own bones back together after they'd broken during their spars? Too many to count. He'd even survived the worst Remy could throw at him during their life and death battles. Why couldn't he heal this too?

What if IX did wake? Remy already knew the answer. The hunt would begin again. Just as the sun would rise, IX would complete the mission. Remy had no doubt of that. So where did that leave him? Stay, and watch IX's slow decay as days melted into years and he didn't wake? Or stay and find himself dead whenever IX's power managed to reverse the damage done?

No. Both options were impossible. Forcing himself to his feet, Remy gave IX and X a last long look. "Remy must go, but dis be a good place. Maybe dey be able to help you, Mon Ami."

* * *

The Blackbird set down with a soft thump. Inside the jet, tension hung heavy in the air, growing as Storm checked the scanners again. "Still nothing. Why aren't we sensing their security?"

Jean shook her head, equally puzzled by the utter lack of security.

"Come on." Scott said. Unbuckling, he stood and lead the way. Jean couldn't help the smile that touched her lips. Leave it to Scott to attack the problem head on. While he was one of their best tacticians, he still had the habit of storming the front gate if things weren't unfolding the way they should. It was left over from their student days. She was certain he'd always have this hidden brashness that only came out in times like this when lives were on the line and a decision had to be made.

Without protest, the women followed. Jean felt the skin between her shoulder blades prickle. She could almost feel the laser dot marking her even though she knew they were alone. There wasn't a thought to be picked up for miles.  _Perhaps Gambit was mistaken._

They reached the front without being stopped. Though the doors were locked, Scott's lasers punched through the metal effortlessly. Again, no one sounded the alarm. Squaring his shoulders, Scott led the way into the facility.

Jean sent her mind out, only to bite back a hiss of pain when it rebounded. Now she could hear the low level buzz that emanated from the walls.  _That's why the Professor never heard the children_. When they were listening to Remy's story, that question plagued Jean more than any other. Xavier usually spent a couple hours a week in Cerebro searching for mutants who were coming into their power. The minds trapped in this place should have been able to reach him. But now she understood.

This place had been built with telepaths in mind. The walls were laced with wires that created counter waves that hid a place from telepathy as well as locking telepathic minds within its walls. Her fists clenched against the hot anger flooding her mind. A headache was already taking root in her mind, and she couldn't imagine being trapped here for any length of time without that low hum only she could hear driving her insane. How many telepaths had been broken here from the sound alone?

"Jean?" Scott touched her arm. Even though she couldn't see his eyes, she could taste the concern in the word.

"I'm fine. There's something in here that jams telepathy. I can't get a fix on anyone in the building. We'll have to follow Remy's instructions and hope we don't run into any guards along the way," her voice waivered slightly from the growing ache inside her skull, but she did her best to hide it.

Scott frowned, wanting to ask again if she was okay but knowing what the answer would be. "Alright." He turned and led the way down the maze of corridors, following the memorized instructions down to the holding pens.

As they rounded the final corner, a gun shot rang out. The stench of death, a mix of blood, gun smoke, and shit assaulted them as images burned themselves into their brains like hot brands. A seemingly endless row of cages. Inside each, a single broken body. So many children, all of them dead. And at the end of the row stood a man. Gun still smoking, now coming around to point at them.

The room echoed with the psychic storm of the children's last moments. Terror, agony, and despair hung in the air like poisoned gas, sinking into her with every tainted breath she took. Jean's eyes blazed. Rage, unlike anything she ever felt before, scorched her soul. The man tried to pull the trigger, only to find himself frozen. All around them, the cages began to shake. Inside of her, a mindless howling filled her mind and all her focus narrowed down on the murderer. Ever so slowly, the hand holding the gun began to move. Inching lazily around, it moved upward to tuck itself under the man's chin. His eyes widened, lips tried to form words, but couldn't as his finger began to pull the trigger.

A red beam, thin as a scope laser, struck the man. It landed directly over his heart before burning straight through him. He hung motionless in the air for a fraction of a second before falling into a crumpled heap.

Only Jean's head turned, but that was enough. All that mindless, inhuman rage focused on Scott. He felt the very air begin to solidify around him like wet cement beginning to dry. "Jean," he said. One word squeezed from tortured lungs. Just one word, but he infused into that single syllable everything. His immeasurable love for her, a thousand kisses, a million gentle caresses, morning walks through the woods, and evenings spent cuddled together under the same blanket as they watched movies with the kids. All of this and more rode in the sound of a whispered name.

The manic power flared, pressing so tightly against him that he felt his heart stutter in his chest. Then the pressure was gone. Sense returned to her haunted green eyes, and she choked out "Scott?" In an instant he was beside her, wrapping her in his arms.

"Shhh, I've got you." She clung to him, unable to hold back the sobs that shook her. Fear, real and all-consuming tried to drown her. What had she almost done? What had she forced Scott to do? _Am I a monster too?_

Storm watched the pair, her crystal blue gaze soft. If Scott hadn't acted, Storm would have fried the bastard before she allowed Jean to stain her hands with his blood. Unlike the rest of them, Jean wasn't a fighter. She was only meant to be backup and support. By nature, she was a healer, and neither of them wanted to taint her by making her take a life.

Taking a deep breath, Storm steeled herself for what had to be done. She left Jean in Scott's capable hands and made her way to the first cage. Empty black eyes stared up at her from a heart shaped face surrounded by soft ebony locks. The Asian slant to the eyes did nothing to hide the accusing look Storm thought she could feel.  _Why didn't you come sooner? You should have saved me. Why did you let me die?_ Choking back a low keening cry, Storm jerked her gaze away from the dead girl and moved on to the next cage.

By the time she finished checking each cage, committing every pair of dead, accusing eyes to memory, Storm's heart was frozen in her chest. The air around her ached with the cold as she locked her emotions away to keep her powers under control less she call down a storm great enough to obliterate this place, and everything around it for a hundred miles.

She stared down at the corpse of the killer. The temperature dropped so fast the body froze as subzero artic winds twisted around it. A crack of lightning flashed in the room, and thunder shook the place. All that was left of the man were hand sized chunks of scorched flesh. Still, it wasn't enough.  _He should have been alive while I did it._ The blood thirsty thought whispered down the hollow corridors of her soul, but couldn't touch her frozen heart. Not right now. Perhaps when it thawed she would be horrified.

If it thawed.

* * *

"Charles?" Dr. McCoy's voice snapped Xavier's mind back into the room. He'd lost contact with the team after they entered the facility, and had been watching the place mentally like a hawk for something to happen. The lack of activity assured him they weren't in imminent danger, but he hated having them out of contact. Who knew what dangers awaited them in a place that experimented on mutants?

"Hm?"

"I've finished all the scans." Now Dr. McCoy had his attention. They'd been friends since high school, and even his transformation hadn't dulled Xavier's ability to read him. He didn't even have to cheat and peak into his mind to taste the volatile mix of excitement, incredulity, and pain.

"What did you find?"

"I'll go over X, aka Logan's, file first. It's easier by far. The metal his claws are made from is adamantium. That's not all. It's been grafted to his  _entire_  skeleton. His healing factor is literally off the charts. In fact, it's impossible to tell how old he is. The healing factor treats aging as it does any other threat to the body and destroys cells when they become frayed instead of aging. It's truly amazing. I've never seen a healing factor so potent before. I…I think he might be immortal. Now that his bones are indestructible, anyway." Dr. McCoy's lips split in a fanged grin, awed by the endless possibilities.

"You aren't to run any unnecessary tests or experiments on him without his permission," Xavier scolded, but his eyes laughed silently at his friend's enthusiasm. Having been the subject of Hank's scientific excitement during their college days, he knew how intense it could be. While he'd been a good sport about all the prodding and the fact that when he got too into his discoveries, Hank tended to forget he was a person and not a lab rat, he didn't think Logan would be as tolerant. Not after everything he'd been through.

Instantly, the grin faded. Hank's eyes grew serious. "No. I wouldn't do that. Logan's healing factor would have made anesthesia impossible. I can't even imagine the sort of hell that man went through as they cut him open and covered his bones in superheated metal."

Charles shut his eyes, trying to block out the thought and failing. He'd seen a great deal of suffering in his life, and being able to hear the thoughts of everyone else only compounded that misery, but even he'd never come across something so horrible.  _It's a mercy he can't remember._  Charles wondered if X remembered, or if that was one of the factors that shattered his human mind.

"That's all I have on Logan. Now on to the real mystery. Even though the medical intervention is a lot less in IX, there have still been some fascinating modifications done to his brain." He offered a scan to Xavier. The bald man stared for a long time at the small black place he'd been forced to burn away before turning to the brain stem, which had been circled in black ink. The entire area was shadowed.

"I managed to extract a small sample and found the area riddled with tiny machines. They're brilliantly designed, nearly organic, and capable of replication using the body's own resources. I believe that the area you targeted had another set of these nano machines. They've fused with his biology, which is what allowed you to target them."

Charles nodded. "That makes sense. I wasn't sure what it was, and thought it might be the center of his mutation."

"Nope. I believe that his mutation started out as a subconscious type, but the scientists who experimented found a way to bridge the gap, so to speak. A black claw traced a thin line of shadow, like a trail of ants that marched up from the brain stem to the visual cortex. "I'm almost certain that this technology allows IX to access his power consciously."

"Can you disrupt it?" Charles asked. Even though the boy was undoubtedly out of commission, there was no reason to take risks.

Hank ran his claws through the soft blue fur on his chin as he thought it over. "I might be able to come up with something, but it'll take a few days," his eyes started to go distant, dreaming technological dreams, when Charles snapped his fingers.

"Still with me?"

Hank stuck his tongue out like a petulant child, but nodded. "Right. That was the first thing I found. Next, do you remember the soldiers who died a few years back? The ones who seemed to melt?"

"The clones?" Charles asked, unable to forget those nightmarish constructs. The splinter group who'd created them learned the hard way that cloned bodies were unstable and prone to collapse.

"Yes." Hank had the unpleasant task of trying to keep one of them alive and learned a great deal during the process even though he lost the man in the end. "Look." He handed over another scan, this one an x-ray of IX's arm. "Do you see?"

Charles's lips thinned as he stared at the x-ray. The bones had an odd grayish tinge to them. It was almost identical to the cloned bones, but weren't as porous as theirs had been. That wasn't all his keen eye picked up on.

"Yes. I see."

"He's not a clone, I'm sure of that. But the connection lead me down the right track. How old do you think IX is?"

"I'd say between fifteen and seventeen?" Looking at the face, one might judge the boy as younger, but beneath the clothes was the body of a man. Small, but perfectly formed and developed.

"Nope. He's somewhere in the ball park of 10 to 12."

Xavier was about to protest, when the pieces of the puzzle snapped together with a near audible click in his mind. "Forced growth. Just like the clones."

"Indeed. That's not all."

"I know. I saw the healed fractures." Something dark passed through Charles eyes. There was nothing he detested more than a child abuser.

Sorrow flitted through Hank's eyes. "Yes. All of his limbs show signs of abuse fractures. Both arms have had multiple spiral fractures. His skull is riddled with minor fractures. Judging by the bone growth, and the location of the fractures, I believe he lived in a very abusive home during his toddler years. Perhaps between the ages of two to six. After that, he was taken. I don't know how they found him, but they did and accelerated his growth."

"Why is he so small? I assume he's fully grown?"

"Yes. His bones are all fully fused. The lower end of his radius is also fused, which indicates that biologically speaking, he's over twenty. My hypothesis is that they deprived him of nutrients during the growth."

Charles could only blink in astonishment. "They did what?" His voice rose in outrage.

"Yep. It's the only thing that makes sense."

"Why would they do such a thing?"

Hank shrugged. "My best guess? They were going for a children of the corn kind of thing."

Charles just stared at him, silently demanding further explanation.

Huffing, Hank said, "Look, in Children of the Corn there was a preacher's kid who started preaching. He drew a huge crowed and they wanted to keep him as a kid for as long as possible so that they could keep raking in the money. They started poisoning him with mercury. As you can guess, it didn't end well for anyone. This is a more scientific twist to the idea. Look at him."

Xavier didn't have to look. The boy looked like just that, an innocent child. "The perfect assassin."

Hank nodded. "Yes. No one would look at him and assume he's a bad guy. Even if he pulled a gun on them, they'd hesitate and end up dead. He's also the perfect spy. No one would notice a teenager wandering around, unless he's in a wildly inappropriate place. People have a tendency to ignore children and to talk over them."

Handing over more x-rays, Hank continued. "I noticed that there's almost no scaring on the boy, which makes no sense considering everything I've been able to make out from his bones. All the fractures healed perfectly by the way. After the growth period finished, there are a lot more fractures and full breaks, but those are all trade mark skirmish wounds. Remy told us he can heal himself, and his bones give testament to that. I also fed the numbers of his childhood injuries into the databases, but found nothing at any hospital that would match his wounds. Not that I expected to. I doubt whoever had him ever took him to the hospital. His mutation must have activated early to keep him alive. But, there are a few scars. The one on his forehead, a number of bite marks on his left shoulder, and a brand on the back of his neck."

His hand froze as he came to the photograph of the mark on the youth's neck. "A brand you say?" He remembered the mark now. It was the boy he'd seen at the Senate. "You were correct about his status as a spy," he mused.

"Now, tell me what has you so excited." Everything that came before was interesting, but nothing on the level that would intrigue Hank as much as the boy clearly had.

"We were wrong. About everything." Charles's sharp gaze locked on Hank's face as the doctor pulled out a D.N.A work up sheet. "It was always assumed that mutation was the next step in evolution, but it's really a step back, or an in between step, but I'm certain it's a step back. There's no way IX can be the first. The genetics are simply too stable. He came from a healthy breeding population."

"Enough teasing, Hank, just tell me," Charles snapped, unable to stand the dance any longer.

"Alright. I always found it odd that the X gene was a partial gene, but thought it could be akin to the XY chromosome that dictated sex. It's actually closer kin to Down's syndrome. Instead of an extra copy of a chromosome, the X gene is only  _half_  of the extra chromosome that indicates mutation. We know that a large number of the population contain a dormant form of this extra half and when it becomes active, we get mutants. But, IX has a full set of this chromosome." His eyes nearly glowed with the light of discovery.

"Amazing," Charles breathed. His gaze turned to the comatose mutant,  _not mutant. What are you?_  He wanted to push into that mind and find answers, but knew it was impossible. A coma was like a shut door when it came to telepathy. The person was lost, and had to find their way back on their own, or be lost forever.

He couldn't stop the small smile that quirked his lips.  _Oh Erik, what would you make of this? It looks like we aren't the supreme beings of the planet after all. You'd be so disappointed._

The door banged open, causing them both to jump. It was an unusual experience for Xavier. People found it almost impossible to sneak up on him, but he'd been so focused on Hank's revelations that he hadn't noticed the team leave the facility, or arrive back home. He would have known if they'd called for help, but they hadn't. Still, he shouldn't have lost track of them like that.

Scott stalked into the room, his face grim. He was alone. Hank studied him before silently slipping out of the room. Some wounds had to be shared in private with the people closest to you, especially wounds of the soul.

Without a word, he stomped across the room and sank into one of the empty chairs. His elbows rested on his knees, and he cradled his head in his hands. Charles thumbed his mechanical wheelchair over to the man who was his son in all but blood. He didn't speak, understanding instinctively that Scott needed the silence to gather himself.

"They're all dead. We were too late." Each word came slowly. Falling into the silence like a punch to the gut. Scott swallowed hard, fighting against tears and losing. A small drop of salty liquid splashed against the inside of his visor. He ignored it, and all the ones that followed. "We got there just as the bastard shot the last one. Jean…" he had to stop, bite back the sob, before continuing. "Jean lost control of her power, but I took him down before she could. It was…I…" he stopped, unable to continue.

Charles reached out, resting a warm hand against the top of Scott's bowed head. Pain radiated off the young man, and he understood the feelings, the agony of taking a life. He'd always hoped to spare his children that pain, but he knew it was a futile hope. The world had become a turbulent place, and though he would shield as many as he could, he knew there would be casualties on all sides.

After a small eternity, the tears and near silent sobs eased. Scott felt the comforting hand slide gently away, running through his hair like it had when he was a young child and had nightmares. Closing his eyes tightly, he eased the visor off and tucked it away. He'd have to clean the tears off later. Scott scrubbed the dampness from his face and reached into his pocket to pull out his ruby tinted glasses. They both tacitly ignored his minor breakdown.

Unable to remain sitting, and not ready to speak again, Scott moved restlessly around the room. He paused at the end of Logan's bed and plucked the small stack of notes off the table. Scanning the data, his lip curled. "He's a monster."

"No, he's the monster." Xavier stated, nodding towards the comatose mutant.

Some of the black emotion in his head cleared at that, unable to believe what he'd heard. Xavier wasn't the sort of man to call anyone a monster. He even considered the likes of Magneto as a misguided friend. To earn the name monster from someone like Xavior…Scott subconsciously moved farther away from the bed. "What?"

"Logan is as much a victim as the children. In his own way, so is IX, but there's a difference between the two. Never doubt that. X was a monstrous creation, but the person he was before the experiments survived. Barely, but the fundamental personality still exists. In time, I believe I can heal him."

Charles turned his attention to IX. "I had to make a choice when I entered IX's mind, and even then I couldn't bring myself to kill him outright. You see, he was taken very young. There is nothing left of the child he once was. All that exists in him is an obedient killer. He's the one who destroyed the town with fire, and he's killed countless others. He has no remorse for his actions, and he will commit any act, no matter how atrocious, if ordered to do so."

Scott's head jerked towards the bed, and he briefly smelled the bitter stench of smoke that lingered over a field of ash. A whole community, obliterated. Hate clawed at the back of his mind, demanding he lift his glasses and blast the small shape into oblivion. Let the dead have their vengeance in the afterlife. But then he saw the body fall, remembered the crushing memory of taking a life, and almost threw up.

"Why? Why are we keeping him alive if he's a monster?" Scott finally choked out around the nausea.

"Because…we would be monsters to kill him if there's any chance he can be saved."

Again he was crushed by the memory of taking a life. "I'm a monster then," he whispered.

Charles reached out again, his heart aching. Gripping Scott's arm he gave it a strong squeeze. "No. You did what was necessary. The man was armed and a theat."

"But Jean-"

"Yes, Jean. She had him in her grasp, didn't she? What would she have done if you hadn't acted?" Charles didn't wait for an answer. "She would have killed him. You saved her from that by taking the wound on your own soul. That was the right thing to do, never think differently. It is our duty to protect them. Not only from physical attacks, but emotional ones as well."

Scott nodded, once again reaching out to dash a tear away. The women wouldn't agree with the Professor's stance, but he did, whole heartedly.

Clearing his throat, he headed for the door. "I'm…going to go check on them."

Once the door clicked shut, Xavier rolled silently over to the far bed. "Any questions Mr. Logan?"

"Logan. Just Logan." Whisky colored eyes opened, looking the wheelchair bound man over curiously. He'd been awake since he and the animalistic smelling mutant began talking. "How'd you know I was awake?"

_I have my ways._

Logan jumped, his pupils dilated and something in the depths of his mind roared. "It was you. You…what happened?" He tried to ignore the bestial sounds resonating inside his skull, not yet ready to cope with what they represented.

"It appears you fell into the hands of a government organization that specializes in experimentation on mutants. I'm not sure what all was done to you, but you're skeletal structure was augmented with adamantium. It also appears that your mind was…" he hesitated, trying to find a delicate way to put it, "Stripped. Through some form of conditioning, they created an alternate personality they were able to control and direct. That personality was an enhanced version of your feral instincts."

Dread formed a lead weight in his gut, the roar fell to a low menacing growl. "And this animal personality, what happened to it?"

_He's a monster._   _Monster. Monster. Monster._  The word echoed in his head, and he could swear he heard the sound of a cage door rattle.

"I was able to wrest control of your mind away from it and lock it down. Unfortunately, I couldn't suppress it completely. What was done to your mind was horrible, and I think if you were younger you would have turned out like IX."

_Erased. Fuck, might as well be erased._ He tried to find a memory, something from before this nightmare started. But all he had was the name Logan. Nothing else would come out of the dark ether where memory should have been. Hell, he didn't even know if the name was his, or a friend, or some shit he heard on TV. It was the only hand hold he'd had when he was first dragged out of the sea of his subconscious.  _Who am I? Monster. He's a monster. No._

"What happens now?"

"You'll have to stay here." Logan's lips curled in a snarl that felt as natural as breathing. Only when he heard the low growl trickle from his lips did he realize what he was doing. The expression vanished and he looked away, unable to meet the understanding gaze of the man who'd saved him.  _I'm not an animal damn it. I'm a man._

"The people who took you are dangerous. They are experienced mutant hunters and have a number of mutants on their payroll. If you fell into their hands again, I don't know what would happen."

"I'd kill them," Logan said, but doubt crept into the words. He clearly hadn't killed them last time. No, last time they managed to strip him of almost everything he was.

"I believe you'd try. But for now, it's best if you remain here."

He couldn't argue with that. Even if he insisted on leaving, where would he go? "Do I have to stay here?" Logan's nose wrinkled. The stink of rubbing alcohol, antiseptic, and all the other odors commonly found in a hospital setting put him on edge.

Charles offered him a knowing smile. "No. You're completely healthy, though Dr. McCoy is rather fascinated with your healing factor and would like to do a few more examinations in the future. Feel free to refuse. You don't have to do anything you don't want to."

The thought of going under the knife to satisfy a mad doctor's curiosity stiffened his spine. Again his lips curled as phantom pain twisted beneath his skin like tiny granules of broken glass. "No." The word was so coldly final that Xavier made a mental note to warn Hank away from Logan. He had a feeling that the next no would be delivered on the tips of his adamantium claws.

"Come along. I'll show you to a guest room where you can stay. All I ask is that you keep to the lower levels. Above us is a school for mutant children and I cannot put them at risk by exposing you until I'm certain it will be safe."

Logan opened his mouth to argue, but the creature inside of him snarled again and he snapped it shut.  _Monster._  How safe was he? "It…The cage you built, it's strong enough to hold it, right?" He loathed how weak he sounded, like a child asking if the monsters under the bed were real.

A sudden bark of harsh laughter escaped his lips when a line of poetry skittered on little rat claws across his thoughts:  _We stopped asking about the monsters under the bed when we realized they were inside our heads._

Charles quirked a curious eyebrow at him, but Logan didn't explain. It was too close to the truth to be said out loud.

"I'm not sure. Your case is unique and only time will tell."

Logan stalked beside the man, each step as silent as a cat's. His eyes drifted to the side and his whole body froze. The scent was everywhere under the more aggressive hospital odors. It clung to his skin and was almost as much a part of him as his own base scent. Perhaps that's why he hadn't noticed it before.

The creature inside of him exploded against the bars of his cage, a keening whine tore from Logan's lips as emotion crashed over him, trying to take control so X could get to his injured mate. He sank to his knees, fists pressed hard against his temples as if he could physically shove the monster back down.

The cage held, barely. Staggering to his feet, Logan fled the room with Xavier trailing behind as fast as his chair could take him. Once outside he turned and slammed a fist against the wall, savoring the sharp pain as the skin over his knuckles split. Out of sight of the small shape on the bed, the yowling din in his head subsided to sulky snarls but that did nothing for the raging confusion left behind.

His cock was hard, rock hard and every part of him demanded he go back in there and roll on the boy in the bed. Mark him with his scent and bathe in the smaller male's scent. Mark him, take him, mate him.

Banging his head lightly against the wall, Logan fought the urge to scream. This couldn't be happening.

_He's somewhere in the ball park of 10 to 12._  Logan's stomach clenched as disgust fought bitterly with raw lust. How could he be attracted to a child? A male child? It was insanity! He liked women. Didn't he? He slammed his fist into the wall again,  _damn it, I don't_ know. Clenching his eyes shut, he tried to picture a naked woman and wanted to scream when it did nothing for him. Then he tried to picture a naked man and felt the same thing. The boy on the bed drifted unbidden to his mind, reigniting the wild fire of his desire.  _No. I refuse to accept this. I'm not attracted to a kid in a God damned coma whose hobbies include kidnapping mutants and wholesale slaughter of small towns._

"Are you alright?"

_Absolutely not._  "Fine." There was no way he could bring himself to explain his body's insane reaction to the broken child. That was something he planned on taking with him to the grave. In the depths of his mind, the bars of the cage rattled and a warning growl chilled his heart.

* * *

Scott paused in the doorway, studying the two women curled around each other on the couch in front of the fire. A tendril of questioning thought brushed against his mind. Not words, but impressions. Sharing her need to comfort, her desire, their past, and asking if he'd be hurt by it. All of it flowed like a gentle ocean wave between them.

A smile curled his lips. In his mind he sent warmth and acceptance back towards her in a skin tingling mental embrace. Ororo needed Jean more than he did right now, and she was one of their dearest friends. Scott knew he'd have Jean later that night. They'd tangle together, losing themselves in the heat of skin, tongue and teeth to burn the past day from their memories. But for now, he could wait. Still giving a soft smile, and nobly resisting the horny teenager living in his hind brain telling him to stay and watch, he shut the door.

The thought of going to his own cold bed was rejected out of hand. Nightmares clung to his thoughts, just waiting to be born. No, he wouldn't be sleeping tonight. Decision made, he began the first rounds of the night inside the mansion. Once that was done, he'd move on to the grounds. Even after the disaster of a rescue mission, he hadn't forgotten how easily Logan and IX breached their home.

* * *

_Note: Lemon starts here._

"I remember when my best friend was shy and quiet. I've created a monster." – Unknown.

* * *

After Scott left, Jean's attention returned to the coldly silent woman tucked against her. Slender fingers trailed through hair whiter and more pure than newly fallen snow. In school, they'd been roommates. Both had come to Xavier's frightened and fighting against the bitter rejection of their families. They say time heals all wounds, but for Jean, Ororo was the healing balm on her emotional scars.

Now she'd do her best to return the favor. Curling closer, Jean dipped her head until it nestled against the smooth column of chocolate brown skin. Her lips stroked over the pulse point, tracing the throbbing beat of life and continuing when her companion didn't protest.

A lick of heated wind cut through Ororo's mind. It held the dry fire of the African midsummer plains, dancing into the arctic waste her thoughts had become. A tiny crack appeared in the ice that incased her heart. She couldn't hold back the low moan when Jean brought her power to play. It felt like a thousand tiny fingers, each hot with desire, played over every inch of her skin. From scalp, to full aching breasts, curving along her ribs, teasing the soft white curls between her thighs before trailing lower to lick at the back of her knees and tickle along the arches of her feet.

Oh Goddess, she'd forgotten how damned good Jean could be. It had been years since she'd last shared the other woman's bed. The years seemed to melt away under the heat of Jean's lips and power. They were sixteen again and summer would never end. Everyone was bisexual and sexual expression had become its own religion. For a few glorious months they were lovers, only parting as friends when they found themselves too alike to handle a serious relationship together.

Reluctantly, she let the liquid heat pierce the protective shell she'd tried to create around her heart.

"That's it, love. Come back to me," Jean purred, trailing a heated line of butterfly kisses over Ororo's strong jaw before capturing her lips. No longer able to resist, Ororo's hands tangled in burnt auburn hair, pulling them flush together.

Jean moaned into the kiss as their soft bodies came together. She'd forgotten this, the delicious crush of breast against breast. A low laugh slipped from her lips, only to be devoured by Ororo.

"What are you laughing at little cat?" She asked, tongue teasing the lips beneath hers between words.

"Mmmm, just remembering the last time we were like this, and how jealous I was of your womanly assets." To emphasis the point, Jean slid a hand up Ororo's shirt to cup one chocolate breast. A grin curved her lips when the other woman arched into the touch, silently begging for more. She gave the glorious offering a gentle squeeze before shifting long enough to jerk the offending shirt off.

Ororo yelped in surprise, her stormy eyes flicking to the door. "No worries, I won't let anyone bother us," she promised before her head dipped forward to take in one dusky nipple. The tender flesh instantly hardened when she flicked her tongue over its sweet peak. Her soft moan urged Jean on, and she pinched the other nipple hard enough to earn a delicious gasp.

Her other hand slid down the front of Ororo's pants. Ororo tossed her head back with a sharp cry when her friend's fingers stroked over her soft mound. "Wait. What…about Scott?" Ororo panted, trying to think around the mounting pleasure. As much as she needed this, she couldn't stand the thought of coming between her best friends.

"S'alright, he knows," Jean said before capturing her lips again in an almost punishing kiss for the interruption just as her thumb parted the moist folds of her. Back arching, Ororo cried out when Jean found the tiny nub of pleasure with her thumb.

"Yessss," she hissed. She could feel Jean like a shadow in her mind, creating a pleasure loop for both of them. Each touch was felt by them both, and Jean knew Ororo's body in ways a normal lover never could. It was intoxicating. She'd forgotten how addictive Jean's touch could be. Goddess, how had she ever given it up the first time?

Two fingers slid into the clenching heat of her. It'd been so long since she'd been penetrated by anyone's touch but her own and she couldn't hold back the near sob of pleasure. Then Jean's telekinesis made her scream.

What thrust between her legs didn't feel like fingers, but a perfect length of cock. The thick head stroked lovingly over her g-spot before the rest of the heated shaft followed. It was better than a real member she'd felt before because Jean's own mind was in hers, and she could adjust size, length, and angle in an instant to give her the ultimate pleasure.

"Goddess! Yes, please, oh Jean."

Both women cried out when twin orgasms crashed through them with the unquestionable power of a tsunami. Outside, thunder crashed and the world was lit with sheets of arching lighting.

They fell together, twined so tightly around each other that there was no Jean, no Ororo. Just one being that throbbed and pulsed with primal passion.

Slowly they melted apart, sinking back into their individual skins. Panting, Ororo slid her arms around Jean. "You've ruined me," she whispered, voice thick from the afterglow. "No man will ever be as good."

Then she laughed, and Jean reached out to swat her for the image that flashed in her mind of her thrusting into Scott instead of the other way around.

"What?" Ororo asked, fluttering her lashes to hide the mirth. "You weren't able to do that when we were girls, so you had to learn it somewhere."

Jean's face burned and she muttered.

"Hmm? I can't hear you my darling one."

"I said…I don't like dildos."

Wild laughter poured from Ororo's lips when she realized what Jean was getting at. "My, oh my. It must have taken many hours of play to perfect that little talent," she teased.

Jean mock glared at her, but felt no real ire. Instead, her heart felt lighter. After the disaster earlier, she felt Ororo pulling away from them, shutting down her own heart in an attempt to escape the pain.

The pain wasn't gone. It never would be. The scars of losing all those children would be with them forever. But now her friend would be able to heal without the experience crippling her.

"Love you," she whispered.

"I love you too kitten."

* * *

_Note: End of lemon._

* * *

Scott couldn't stop the quiet laughter as he watched the light show blaze across the sky. It was a good thing his power wasn't so flashy. He'd hate for the whole world to know every time Jean brought him to climax.

Thankfully it was only lightening. He wasn't interesting in spending the next hour walking through the rain.

He'd finished his rounds and was about to return to the house when headlights cut across his path. Turning towards the unexpected brightness, he frowned when he spotted a cab pulling up to the front gate. Before the stranger could reach out and tap the buzzer to be let in, Scott appeared to open the gate.

"Can I help you?"

The dark haired man in the driver's seat gave him an uneasy look before saying, "This Xar's School?"

"It's Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. Yes."

"You heard the man, looks like this is your stop. That'll be forty-three fifty."

Scott looked into the back seat and spotted the three teens. They were wearing matching orange jumpsuits, making them look like escaped convicts from juvie. The one in the middle had a black hoodie with the price tag still attached on. Its hood was pulled so far down that he couldn't see anything beyond the deep shadows.

Instead of handing him the money, she threw three twenties over the seat before scrambling out the door as if afraid he'd lock them in. The boy followed, turning at the last second to gather up the third girl. None of them spoke to the driver, and he refused to look at them. Instead he tucked the money away, gave Scott one final glare, and slammed the cab in reverse, leaving the lot of them behind.

None of them spoke. The boy shifted from foot to foot, but made no move to put the smaller girl down, and Scott didn't blame him. She clung to him, wide ice blue eyes locked on Scott as if waiting for him to attack. The girl was pale by nature, but the ashy whiteness of her skin was anything but. He also made a mental note of her missing limb.

Something flashed in other's hood. Light reflecting off slit pupil eyes. "Hello, my name is Scott Summers and I'm a teacher here. Why don't we head inside so you can get warmed up?" Now wasn't the time for questions, he knew. He also knew that underfed, frightened look. But the uniforms were the only sour note. If not for those, he'd say they were mutant runaways who'd fallen in together and heard about this being a safe haven. He didn't think that was the case here, but he couldn't afford to press them now. They were a hairs breath away from either attacking or fleeing.

"Yeah. Okay. Let's…let's do that," said the one in the hood after looking at the other two for a long moment. The words held the edge of a hiss, and Scott thought he saw the flick of a black forked tongue an instant after she spoke.

_Professor?_

_I see them. It appears not all the children at the facility were lost. I'm still in the medical wing. Bring them down so Dr. McCoy can have a look at them._

_I will._ Scott's heart lightened. Somehow, these three escaped the slaughter and made it here. It would never make up for the ones they'd lost, but he couldn't help but feel better knowing that a few made it out of the nightmare.

Turning, he offered his back to them as he led his way up the drive.

Adelaide stared at Scott's back, then turned her alien gaze on Pietro. She didn't have to speak. He sucked on his bottom lip, looking at the mansion, at the man, at the gate.

"There are lots of mutants in there," Alice's soft whisper made them both jerk in surprise. She hadn't done more than cry since the escape, and they hadn't expected her to do more now.

"Should we go, or try somewhere else?" Pietro asked, anxiety making him bounce a little on the balls of his feet.

She was silent so long they thought she wouldn't answer. Scott had stopped on the path, but didn't turn and demand they follow. "Go."

Cuddling her closer to his chest, Pietro started after the stranger with Adelaide at his side. They shared a single look, in it, determination and a silent promise to never be taken again flared.

Scott released the breath he'd been holding when he heard the soft crunch of gravel at his back. He'd never force them to come against their will. For any mutant, that would be an act of betrayal, but for them? It would shatter any future trust they might develop. Still, he desperately wanted them inside and safe. Death seemed to hang in the air around them, and he felt like it would snatch them away on the threshold of safety if he wasn't careful.

The harp wire tension in his shoulders eased once he had the heavy oak door shut behind them. IX had proven their defenses weren't unbreathable, but he couldn't deny the psychological comfort of shutting out the horrible world and retreating into safety. The children seemed to agree. Even though they still clustered close together, they no longer looked like they were going to run screaming into the night.

They followed along behind him like a string of ducklings that had accidentally imprinted on a dog. Once they reached the elevator, Scott spoke, "We're going to head down to the infirmary to get you looked over and make sure you're healthy. Then we'll find you some better clothes and get you settled into some guest rooms. Is that alright?"

Alice tucked her face against Pietro's chest, once more checking out of the situation, leaving the choice up to them. Adelaide's tongue flicked out again, tasting the honesty of his words. "Fine." Might as well get it over with. Even though Alice said there were mutants here, she couldn't help but think they'd kick her out the minute they saw her face. Unlike the others, she couldn't play human.

A cheerful bing marked their arrival, and she couldn't keep a sardonic smile off her lips. Everything was clean and perfect, so unlike the hell they'd escaped. Again her tongue flicked out, savoring the sweet air that was free of the taint of terror and blood. That, more than anything else kept her moving forward. If the supposed 'infirmary' was the same type of torture chamber the Doctor had, she would have known it from here.

"Here we are. Dr. McCoy will look you all over. Don't worry, he's very kind even though his mutation makes him look a bit fierce."

That gave Adelaide hope. Maybe she wouldn't be the only odd one here. The door opened, and they'd only taken a step into the room when the scent struck her tongue. It crashed into her like a sword through the heart, rooting her to the spot as her eyes dilated. The pupils expanding so much they took over, leaving them pits of mindless, terrified dark.

Scott and Pietro didn't notice her sudden stop. Instead they moved further into the room. She tried to scream, to break out of the terrified paralysis and tell them to run.  _Trap! Run, we have to run!_ But she couldn't speak, couldn't move.

Couldn't even breathe. The taste of IX lingered like honeyed poison on her tongue, locking her in place.

Alice felt the presence of a powerful mutant, and couldn't block it out. All she wanted to do was sleep, and pray she didn't dream. Forcing her eyes open, she turned her head to see what awaited them, be it salvation or more terror.

Before she found the power she'd sensed, her eyes were caught by a familiar face. Hope, more fragile than a butterfly's wing, crumbled to dust. The dragon of memory reared up and attacked, shredding all sense of self.

" _Tisk, tisk, little girl. You're going to do what we want in the end, so why do you fight? Be happy! Stryker wants to you for his team. You're such a lucky, lucky little pet. Unlike the rest of the kennel, you have a future! Doesn't that make you happy?" the Doctor cooed at her, petting her hair as if she really were nothing more than an unruly pup who chewed the newspaper._

" _But you have to learn, my darling one. You have to learn. IX?"_

_A boy no taller than her appeared. She was shocked when she felt nothing from him. A human? Before she could figure it out, he grabbed her. No matter how she squirmed and kicked, he held her fast and forced her against the wall. With a skill that proved he'd done this more than a few times, he forced each arm up and shackled her in place, back facing the room. Gripping the back of her shirt, he gave a violent jerk, tearing the material free and exposing her vulnerable back. Then he moved away, leaving her half naked and exposed to whatever the Doctor had in mind._

_It didn't take long for her to find out. Agony exploded across her skin with the first lash. He'd given her five that day, and in the days after she earned ten more after each refusal. After each beating, IX would unbind her, and carry her back to her cell. He never spoke to her, not once._

_XxXxXxX_

_The Doctor was distracted. One of the mutants he'd been cutting up died, and he was trying to bring him back. She fought the leather cuffs that held her in place against the wall. When the whippings hadn't worked, he'd decided to give her a practical lesson about what would happen to her if she kept refusing to be useful. She'd been forced to stand and watch what the monster did to all those mutants he deemed 'useless'._

_Her wrists were bloody from the struggling she'd been doing most of the day. The blood dripped down her arms, and she could still hear his laughter as he told her to keep struggling because he thought the red and white made her look like a candy cane._

_When her hands finally slipped free, leaving a fair bit of skin behind, she was stunned. Her heart felt like it would explode, and all she could do was run._

The scream built, trapped in her lungs, but growing like an underground explosion.

_She hadn't gotten far when a hand reached out and caught her. There was darkness, pressure like nothing she'd ever felt before, and utter disorientation. Then they were back in the Doctor's private hell._

_The way he'd looked at her froze the marrow in her bones. It was no longer the 'bad puppy' look. No, now he looked at her like she was a bug that needed to be crushed._

" _My dear little freak. I've been patient with you, I really have. Perhaps it's because I like blonds. Maybe it's your eyes? Or your pert little tits, but really, this is too much. I'm done playing nice girl. Put her on the table, and stick around. I'll need you to patch her up when I'm finished."_

" _No! Please, I'll do it. I'll do anything you want. PLEASE!"_

_He didn't acknowledge her words, not even with another one of his insane remarks._

_She'd fought as if possessed, and nearly broke free before IX struck her in the back of the neck, forcing her body to go limp in his arms. Before she regained her senses she was naked, strapped to the table and no amount of struggling would free her from these straps. The only reason she'd gotten away before was because the Doctor had strapped her to the wall. IX never left any room for attempted escape._

" _Hmmm, let's see. I think my dearest Annie Wilkes had the perfect solution for what needed to be done with unruly pets who try and escape. However, I'm quite vexed with you my precious one, so I think a foot just isn't enough to make up for how naughty you've been. No…not nearly enough."_

_Humming a lullaby under his breath, he'd ignored her begging. "Now, I'd offer you an anesthetic, however I think that would…hmmm, blunt the point of the punishment. Don't you?" He'd grinned at her then, and there was nothing sane in that look._

_She remembered the way his fingers stroked almost lovingly over the skin of her thigh, then how the blade cut into her. He'd ignored her shrieks as easily as he'd ignored her pleading. When he'd finally gotten to the bone, he didn't grab a bone saw. Even though she was half out of her mind with agony, what she saw next still managed to penetrate. He had a wire with two handles, one on each end. "This is the best part my dear, let me introduce you to my gigli saw. Did you know back in the day British spies used to carry these around? They make a fine garrote, except instead of just strangling the victim, it cuts them open!" With a high, girlish laugh, he held the tool in front of her horrified eyes, showing her the sharp little teeth._

" _They also make superb bone cutters," he purred as he wrapped the wire around her exposed femur. Then he began, pulling one handle then the other, making the teeth rasp into the hard bone with a low ripping sound that reminded her of a zipper being pulled up and down. It was beyond torture, beyond sanity, unspeakable agony. Every rasp of the wire cut deeper into bone, but it was so slow. Minutes seemed to bleed into hours and her voice shattered from the inhuman screams._

_Then the bone was finally sheered through. "There we go. See? Easy peasy. Okay, IX heal up the stump." The Doctor loomed over her, he patted her face with a hand stained with her blood. "There, there little pup. I've heard three legged dogs are all the rage this season. Now be a good girl and hush up. Losing a leg sucks, sure, but being blown to bloody bits is a lot worse, kapesh?"_

_She didn't respond, couldn't respond. Not that she could scream anyway. Her throat was a raw ruin. Then IX was there, and she learned she could keep screaming after all. It felt like he'd dipped the stump where her leg had been in acid. Then, the pain was gone. All of it. Her eyes snapped open, hoping it was just a vivid nightmare, but her leg was still missing. Now the stump was smoothed over as if she'd always been missing a leg._

" _Wonderful!" The Doctor clapped like a child who's seen a practically fine magic trick. "Man, you're getting way better at doing that while they scream. I thought she's explode for sure the way she was carrying on."_

" _It's easy to ignore when I know what to expect," came the dead reply._

" _Yeah, well…deal with that won't you? I don't want a leg lying around rotting." Again with the tittering laugh._

_IX grabbed the discarded limb and moved it to a steel exam table. A sob broke from Alice when he reached out and fire leapt from his finger tips to engulf what had once been part of her. For a second, she almost felt the fire eat away her flesh, as if the leg were still attached._

" _Mmmmm, I love the smell of roasting pork. Don't you?" The Doctor asked. Neither of them replied and he pouted._

_Once the limb was reduced to fine grey ash, the fire vanished, leaving only the burnt pork smell behind. "Oh, take that back to its cell won't you? I'm sure we won't have any more troubles. Will we?" his eyes locked on her white face, the hand print of blood still decorating one cheek like a violent exclamation point._

" _N…n…n…n-"_

" _That's my girl," he whispered, leaning over to plant a gentle, fatherly kiss on her sweaty forehead._

* * *

The ear splitting scream tore from her throat, an echo of her mindless howls of memory. With a violent shove, she fell from Pietro's arms and began crawling towards the door. The scream went on and on, and she couldn't stop it. Couldn't control the absolute terror, even know that it would wake the monster up. He would come and grab her. Again the darkness would come and they'd reappear in the Doctor's chamber.

" _If you ever try to run away again, I'll take all of your limbs. You'll just be a pretty little head and a torso, the perfect little fuck doll. I'll keep you in a trunk at the foot of my bed."_

Alice could feel his hot breath against her ear, and it was too much. Darkness swallowed her whole.

Pietro cursed and spun so fast he was a blur. He saw Adelaide fall, and turned again trying to find the source of the attack. It was then he spotted what the girls already saw. IX. Moving so fast the eye couldn't keep track, he snatched a pair of scissors off the desk and put himself between the girls and the rest of the room.

He didn't attack. Not yet, he didn't dare. IX was beyond legend to them, and even with his advantage Pietro knew he'd die if IX attacked.

Why wasn't he attacking? The body on the bed hadn't stirred, not even after all the screaming. Fighting against the need to stare at IX in case he woke, Pietro scanned the room. Scott was at the side of a bald man in a wheel chair who was clutching his head, and there was a large, blue fuzzy fellow standing near the back who held himself like he wanted to come to them but didn't want to make things worse by frightening them.

"What's going on? Professor?"

Pietro spun again at the first word and might have attacked if woman hadn't looked so genuinely worried. Her red hair spilled around a long night shirt clad body, and as she knelt to check on the fallen girls, he caught the outline of one pert nipple through the thin material.

Some of his confused terror was overwhelmed by teen hormones, and he didn't react when she moved past him to go to the bald man. Instead he eagerly took in her lush back side as she walked by. He swallowed hard before forcing his attention back to more important things.

_The girls, protect the girls' dumb ass._  Another woman had appeared while he was distracted. Instead of just checking Alice, she moved to pick the girl up. In a flash, Pietro was between them. He shoved the white haired woman away and held the scissors up threateningly. "Back off."

"We mean you no harm," her voice was rich and dusky. It seemed to go straight to his prick and he thought seriously about stabbing himself in the leg. Maybe then he'd be able to focus.  _Damn it, what is this place? Beautiful women are us? Fuck!_

"If you mean us 'no harm' why the fuck is the executioner here?"

"Do you know a man named Remy LeBeau?"

Pietro's shoulder jerked up in a half shrug while his eyes continued to dart from the woman to the bed and back. They made more than one stop at her breasts before leaping up to her amazing blue eyes. "Yeah. He was IX's favorite toy. Disappeared a long time ago. I thought the Doctor killed him." His voice broke slightly on the word kill; his eyes skittered away from hers again. No one asked what happened when people disappeared from the pens. Most of the time IX killed them there, where they could all see, but they all knew whenever the Doctor came for one of them there was a fair chance they'd never return.

Thankfully, the Doctor hadn't been too interested in him. He hadn't even ran afoul of IX. The only time he'd been in the madman's lair was during the initial exam and sample gathering phase. Pietro bit his bottom lip, remembering the single threat he'd received.  _"You're not all that interesting, so I'll only tell you this once. Be good. If not, well speed doesn't mean piss in the ocean if you're paralyzed from the waist down."_

His eyes reluctantly darted to the man in the wheel chair and away again. No thank you. He'd been good.

"No, he escaped and like you ended up here for sanctuary. IX and X came to…"

"Kill him. Yeah, I get it now. Guess that explains why they've been gone so long. So what the hell? How come you guys aren't a pile of bloody bits?" Pietro demanded. He reached up to run his fingers through his grey hair and nearly stabbed himself in the eye with the scissors still clutched in his fist. Heat burned his cheeks as he tucked them into his pocket.

"How about we get the girls up off the floor and into one of the beds and then talk about it? My name is Ororo by the way, or you can call me Storm if you prefer. The woman who came in before me is Jean, over there by Professor Xavier. Hank is back there. He'll want to have a look at the three of you before too much longer," Storm said, offering the sort of smile he'd dream about later.

"Er…yeah. Sorry. You know, about before."

"It's understandable." Moving slowly, she bent and gathered Adelaide into her arms. Pietro already had Alice tucked against his chest again.

Once they were tucked in the two beds farthest from IX, Dr. McCoy got to work checking their vitals.

"So, care to tell me how you guys aren't all dead?" Instead of skepticism, the words held a hint of hero worship.

Storm felt her cheeks heat at the tone. "It was Professor Xavier. He's a very powerful telepath and was able to defeat them. IX's mind was badly damaged during the attack, and he's in a coma. Odds are good he'll never wake from it, but even if he does, he's going to have to relearn just about everything. He's no longer a threat to you or anyone else."

Pietro snorted. "Okay, yeah that's freaking awesome and all but you should kill him. Just saying, we'll all be way safer if he was dead." Storm frowned at him, but couldn't silence the small voice in her heart that agreed.

"How about you? We…we went to the compound after Remy told us about it, but we were too late to save anyone."

Pietro swallowed hard, fighting the lingering terror. It had only been a few hours ago, but it felt like forever. And yet, it also felt like he was still strapped in his cage, listening to each gun shot as Zero worked his way towards him. The screams rang in his head.

"I don't know what happened, but they decided killing all of us sounded like a great idea and sent Zero and Wraith to do it. Zero was shooting everyone, but I dunno, I guess Wraith couldn't handle it. He pulled Adelaide out and vanished. That's his power, he's a teleporter. Anyway, so he pulled Adelaide out, then me, then Alice. He gave Adelaide some money and an old card with this address on it. Told us to come here. And here we are."

"What happened after he brought Alice?"

"No idea, he never came back."

Storm nodded, remembering the cell that held two bodies. One an adult black man, the other a little boy.

"Well, how about you let Dr. McCoy have a look at you? After that we'll see about getting you guys something to eat and figure out the room situation."

* * *

Warmth cradled Xavier's mind, gently drawing him out of the nightmarish memories. The strain of the day left his shields weak. When first Adelaide and then Alice saw IX, he'd been sucked down right along with them while they drowned in memories. It was like he and they were one, and their memories became a reality.

A flash back, locking them into the past and him along with them. It was too much. Jean's arms wrapped around his shoulders while her mind formed a protective wall around his.  _Rest now, we'll take care of everything. Rest._ He could have fought the mental command, but didn't. Instead, he allowed himself to be drawn down into healing darkness.

"He'll sleep for the rest of the night. Can you put him to bed Scott?" Jean asked. He said nothing about the tear tracks that marked her face, or what they'd seen. The girl's screams would haunt his nights enough as it was. He honestly didn't want the details, though he'd probably have to know about them sooner rather than later.

Stepping forward, he hugged her. They clung to each other and silently prayed that nothing else would happen tonight. Finally, Jean nudged him. Scott sighed, not ready to let go but knowing he had to. With a soft, lingering kiss, he left to tend to Charles.

Looking around, she saw that Storm had the boy well in hand before she turned her attention to Hank. "How are they?"

"They've gone through a lot, and they're both in mild shock. I think the little blond has shut down completely. They're all on the thin side, but I wasn't able to find any obvious wounds. I gave the girls a mild sedative to help them rest easily through the night, but it would be best if we moved them to one of the guest rooms so they won't have to face IX again."

Jean looked down at Alice and felt her heart break from the burden of memories she'd been hit with at the same time as Xavier. She'd been able to shield enough not to live them, but she'd seen enough. "Yeah. That would be for the best."

* * *

Magic pooled inside his skull. Its waves lapped gently over the damaged tissue, bathing it in healing light. Like when he was a child, the power didn't require his conscious thoughts to mend his wounds. Instead of a quick rush of power directed by will, this was like a spring rain. It soaked into him throughout the night.

As dawn broke, IX's eyes opened.


	21. Incommunicado

"He that is taken and put into chains is not conquered, though overcome; for he is still an enemy." – Thomas Hobbs

* * *

People say the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. That power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. They speak of monsters, and the many ways they are both born and made. Xavier knew all the tired tales, all the fables and stories we tell ourselves to warn against evil. Even when – especially when – that evil begins with the best of intentions.

Navy blue eyes studied the shadows playing across the ceiling in the early dawn light as if he might find an answer there. When he was a young man, still able to walk, he'd met someone. A youth who'd been tempered in one of the hottest fires man had inflicted on his fellow man. The hateful fire of Auschwitz had forged Erik into a strong blade. One that longed to cut the world to pieces. There were times when he thought his dearest friend had a point. A sharp, wicked point.

Temptation lived in Xavier, always. There was a time Erik had almost swayed him down the tempting path. Perhaps the fact that his friend wanted to destroy all of humanity was the only thing that kept him from walking down it. Erik hadn't known the right argument.

We should all fear evil men, but there's something we must fear most…the indifference of good men. Good men, power corrupts, good men, indifference.

The road to hell.

Cerebro was both a blessing and the most tempting of curses. Erik wanted him to use it as a weapon against humanity, blatantly ignoring his own hypocrisy. He'd lived first hand through a holocaust, and his answer to preventing another? Kill them all first. That would never do. Not for Xavier.

But…the indifference of good men. That was the crux of the matter, wasn't it?

As the Headmaster of a school, even one as unique as this one, he had the dubious pleasure of observing the random trends that came and went throughout the years. A few terms ago, anime was all the rage. Most of the shows were beyond silly, but there were some that struck a chord, and one that cut straight to heart. In the story, a perfectly normal – if brilliant – student stumbles across an artifact of great and terrible power. It allows him to kill from afar by writing down a name while thinking of the face it belongs to. Light was swiftly sucked into the power, and sought to create a new world. Destroy that which is evil, so that which is good may prosper.

Power corrupts. No matter how great the intentions, or how noble the cause, power great enough to make one a God can only end in tragedy. Any path paved in bodies goes in one direction, and it isn't paradise. Xavier knew that better than anyone else because Cerebro was his Death Note. Erik knew it from the beginning, and urged him to turn it into a weapon.

How tempting that had been! Not too kill off all the non-mutants that was insanity. But what about evil? His Death Note was a thousand times better than Light's had been. He alone had the power to look into the minds of all, and know,  _know,_  if they were guilty or not. He would be able to see their crimes, and know their hearts. He alone could judge them fairly, and destroy those whose minds were too corrupted to be saved.

When you look into the abyss, the abyss looks back. That last fight with Erik had been a crossroads, even though his friend hadn't realizes the true depth of the decision being made. The choice for Xavier wasn't to go with Erik's crazy plan or not. It was to become God or not. In the end it was his knowledge of humanity that stayed his hand. No matter what he did, he would never be able to erase the darkness in humanity's heart, just as no amount of evil or suffering could completely overcome the light that dwelled there. He could bury the landscape in corpses until oceans ran red, but he would never create a paradise on a foundation of death and terror.

Every inch of his body thrummed with hunger, even the parts he shouldn't be able to feel ached with the need to pull himself into his chair and wheel down to Cerebro. Never had the temptation been as great as it was now. He wanted _– needed_ – to track down the monster dressed in a man suit dared call itself Doctor. For the first time in his life he wanted to prowl through those glowing white lights with the intent to kill. The idea of capturing that single diseased mind, and slowly, so slowly, crush it almost overwhelmed all sense. Xavier didn't want to kill him quickly. No, he wanted the monster to suffer, to know he was trapped without any means of escape as the pressure grew and grew. He wanted to hear the man scream.

Xavier's fists clenched, neatly trimmed nails biting into the tender flesh of his palms. This was another crossroad. No, the same crossroad. He'd known then what stepping down that road would mean, and it hadn't changed. If he went into Cerebro with the intent to kill, a single life would never be enough. No matter how much that light needed to be snuffed out, he couldn't use his power to do it.

He couldn't kill in cold blood. The world wouldn't survive the monster he became if he did. In his mind's eye, he turned away from that path. For now, and always, his power would be used for protection and healing. Let the Eriks of the world fight, if it came to that. He would provide sanctuary and healing for those seeking safety and protection. His X-men would do all they could to keep the world balanced between human and mutant safety. If there was a path to peace that wouldn't drowned the world in blood, he would find it.

With painful slowness, the tension drained from him. Xavier closed his eyes and let his mind open like a flower hungry for sunlight. He found the damaged mind, drifting softly under a layer of gauze left by the drugs. Under the flimsy protection, darkness roiled, waiting to drag the girl down into nightmares the moment the drugs weakened enough for them to take control.

In general, Xavier preferred to work with students who've been hurt and take the healing slowly, letting the mind heal at its own pace. But there were cases where that wasn't possible. The damage was too great for the afflicted mind to recover from. If left alone, the mind would turn cannibal, devouring itself, resulting in one of two outcomes: suicide, or catatonia. He wouldn't allow either outcome. Not after all the girl had suffered. She'd survived so much, and he would help her live again.

It was all he could do since he refused to destroy the one who'd done this to her. Xavier sank gently into the sleeping mind, drifting past the thin film of drugs and into her memories. The past three months were the stuff of nightmares, and he again had to strengthen his resolve so he wouldn't go hunt the monster down. He didn't erase the memories. They were a part of her, and now helped define who she was. Taking them away would be as damaging as leaving them as they were.

Instead, he began to nudge them. Pushing them back so that they became smaller, farther away from her waking mind. Then he dulled the colors, dimmed the sounds, and blunted the mind shattering agony. He painted with the brush of time, letting the immediacy of the memories fade. When she woke, she would still recall what happened, but it wouldn't be able to drag her down into a full sensory replay of the memories. Instead, it would be like a childhood trauma. Something that needed to be worked on, but was still safely tucked away in the past. Now Alice would have a chance to heal.

Satisfaction warmed the cold knot in his heart. Yes, this was how his gift should be used.

This was the type of person he wanted to be.

An agonized psychic scream cut across his mind. "Jean?" He gasped. His mind reached out for hers, saw the impossible, and felt a sharp hook of pain as the foreign mind tried to snare him too. Lips pealed back in a grimace of pain, he tore his mind free and felt the mental wound as if it were real. Jerking himself to the side of the bed, he fell into his chair and almost slid out of it before catching his grip. He had to hurry.

* * *

IX's breath remained smooth. The repetitive beep of his heart monitor didn't change when he woke. His eyes cracked open for a second before shutting again. Metallic (not pitted with rust or streaked with age), clean, bright, smell of antiseptic, sound of medical machines, the bite of a needle in his arm, medical room.

But not the Doctor's domain. Even without the small glance, he knew that. The first hint was that he was comfortable. A soft pad supported his weight, a light blanket was tucked around him, and a pillow supported his head. The best the Doctor gave was a cold metal slab and thick leather straps to hold unwilling victims down. His left wrist gave a subtle twitch. No straps.

His mind casted back, trying to recall how he'd ended up here. The memory rose sluggishly,  _a jolt of power to knock out the electricity, moving through unknown hallways, following the little marker, finding Remy. Remy had been drunk. The stink of alcohol, the same smell that some of the guards often had. Those guards never lasted long. Remy. Drunk, hurt, unable to stand. Kneeling. Offering. "Remy try' ta tell dem." "A good time Mon Cher." "You did." "Report." "Found."_

Pain. The memory ended in a jagged blaze of white as if the film of his life had been spliced by lightning. A ghost of that pain seemed to linger inside his skull and flared a bit when he tried to prod the memory for more information. Nothing more came, just the lingering sense of hurt.

His eyes flicked open again, scanning the room to memorize the layout and mark exits before closing them again.

Alone, for now.  _Report_ , the memory prodded.

"IX, reporting." He blinked when he didn't hear the low hum of connection. "IX, reporting to Stryker. Come in Stryker." Absolute silence. The beep of the heart monitor sped up before dropping back. His stomach clenched when he understood what had happened. Somehow his ability to communicate with his superiors had been severed. Again the heart monitor picked up.  _Control._ IX took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and forced his body to remain lax.

No connection meant no new orders and no reports.  _What should I do? Kill Remy. Escape. Return to base. Reestablish contact. Locate and retrieve X._ The final thought made his eyes jolt open again to assure himself he was still alone. X wasn't here. That thought stalled him.  _Find X first. No. Finish the mission. X cannot be killed. Locate him after. Find X._

The conflicting thoughts stilled when he heard a door hiss open. Once again the heart monitor beeped placidly. His chest rose and fell in a perfect imitation of a body at rest while he mentally tracked the sound of footsteps as they meandered around the lab.

* * *

Dr. McCoy yawned, flashing fangs as he padded towards a lab table already set up with everything he needed. He measured out a precise amount of coffee grounds into a beaker while water came to a boil on the Bunsen burner. Slipping on a pair of gloves, he poured the water over the grounds and gave a sigh of pleasure as the heady aroma began to circle him. This was the life. Every day should begin with a superb cup of coffee to kick off another successful day of research.

Once the cup of liquid heaven was brewed to his exacting standards, he picked it up and wandered over to check on his patient. "Good morning kiddo," he said before checking the teen's vitals. The young face, smooth with sleep, kept throwing him off. He looked like any of the students who might have gotten into a misadventure and landed themselves in the hospital wing. Hank had to keep reminding himself that the boy was technically an enemy. He snorted and took a long swallow of coffee, savoring the rich warmth and thinking about how he could probably break the boy in half with a single swipe if it came to that. Not that he had anything to worry about. As much as he hated thinking about any kid begin hurt, in IX's case, it was probably best that he wouldn't recover.

The cup left his lips when it jerked forward, slamming into his face with enough force to shatter the glass and his nose. Burning liquid splashed into his wide, startled eyes and he howled in agony as he stumbled away. Something crashed into his gut, doubling him over and turning the cry into a wheeze. Then more pain exploded, this time slamming into the back of his skull. He crashed into the ground and lay silently in a pool of coffee and blood.

* * *

IX timed the strikes perfectly. The heel of his right hand shot up, connecting solidly with the bottom of the coffee cup. Half rolling, he drove his left fist into the mutant's lower stomach hard enough to fold the man over. Sitting up, he laced his hands together to form a giant fist and brought it crashing down on the blue furred head, silencing the scream his first attack wrung from the man.

As silence returned to the room, IX plucked the needle out of his arm, pulled off the various electrodes attached to his naked upper body and forehead before reaching over to flick the now bleating heart monitor off. IX slid off the table and glanced down. A simple pair of sweat pants met his questing gaze, and he could tell by movement alone that he'd been stripped of his considerable arsenal. Stepping past the unconscious man on the floor, IX headed for the door.

The first goal was to escape. After that, he could return to base to reestablish contact and finish the hunt for Remy. Then he would be able to return here with the rest of the team to handle the mutant infestation.  _Find X_. The thought continued to plague him. Where was he? Why hadn't X found him? It was impossible for him to be destroyed, and nothing should have kept him from returning to IX's side. Dismissing the problem for later consideration, IX headed for the door.

It was a large metal circle that didn't budge when he approached. Reaching out, IX pressed his hand against the cold surface and whispered, "Open." The door opened with a soft hiss, revealing a long hallway. There were other circular doors he recalled passing to get to Remy, but then he'd had the tracker to guide him.

He'd almost made it to the circular door at the end of the hall when it hissed open. His eyes narrowed when he saw the woman step through, still looking down at a tablet in her hand.  _The loose thread, so here's where you've been hiding._

The woman's head snapped up, as if she heard the thought. Jade locked with emerald.

* * *

_The loose thread, so here's where you've been hiding._

Jean's mind stumbled. The cold thought crawled across it like a snake at midnight, sending a spike of terror and hate through her soul.  _Impossible! He can't be awake. Even if he was awake, he shouldn't be able to_ think.  _If he did wake up, he'd be drooling and flailing about, not walking around not…_

She looked up and all doubt fled. No matter how impossible, it was truth and denying it would get her killed. Jean could almost feel the metal bands around her. They were once again in the Liberty Statue, and he was again walking towards her with thoughts of death on his mind. This time, he had no knife. They'd taken them all. But she could see from his thoughts that it wouldn't matter. Even reading his mind, she wouldn't be able to keep up with his trained skill.  _Shit, shit, shit._

Another step, Jean reached out with power. Not telekinesis this time, she couldn't risk him breaking free. Instead her mind surged forward and pressed into his. She wouldn't attempt to control him, just send him into unconsciousness. The Professor could deal with him then. Sinking into his mind, she thought:  _Sle-_

Agony exploded inside her. She gave a mental shriek as a hundred barbed hooks bit into her mind and began dragging her down. Jean screamed, her mind thrashing, but every twist made the mental hooks sink deeper. When she could bear no more, she was slammed down into something. The mental pain eased, though the wounds still bled.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath she stood up and blinked. Everything had changed. She was no longer in the world she'd always known. This was a vast empty plain that might have been white once. Now only a few patches of white remained between the splashes of crimson, cherry, faded burgundy, and black.  _Blood_ , her shocked mind whispered.

A voice boomed around her like the voice of God: "Learn what they have to teach you, fight, kill…or be killed."

With that, shadows emerged from the bloodstained ground. There were eight of them and to her horror she realized she couldn't move. The body she was in wasn't her own, and no matter how she screamed inside her skull, it wouldn't obey. Then the shapes moved, and she moved too. She was a passenger in the nightmarish dance, but she felt everything. Each staggering blow that got through from the men who were so much bigger than her screamed through her small body. Ribs cracked, her nose was badly broken, her left arm torn out of it socket so savagely that it was nearly ripped off. Still she fought. She fought even when her left leg was shattered. Only after her back was broken in three places, and she could feel nothing below her waist did the body still. Then she felt the foot on her neck. Her scream was slowly choked off as the delicate bones were crushed.

Mind numbing terror rocked her as she died, sucked down into the black.

SNAP

Jean woke up. Fresh blood painted the ground, and she knew it was  _hers_. New horror filled her as she looked at all the blood stains.  _How many times? How many times has he died here?_  Again the voice boomed overhead, demanding she fight.

_No! Please, no I can't do this, please!_  She tried to scream, but her lips wouldn't move. Instead the body she was trapped in remained passive, waiting to be killed again.

* * *

"No! Please, no I can't do this, please!" her screaming plea rang around the room. IX stalked forward and put his hand around her throat.

"Be silent." He whispered, forcing his power into her. Even though her mouth opened for another scream as a new death sequence began, no sound escaped. His fingers tightened around her throat. The rapid flutter of her pulse against his palm felt like the frantic flap of a dove's wings. A little more pressure and the delicate bones would be crushed, just as his had been in the mind scape years ago. Only there would be no snapping back from death for her. She would get to see what waited on the other side of the darkness, if anything did.

"Let her go." The low, deadly voice was familiar. Another loose end that should have been snipped.

IX looked away from the woman's darkening face into the visored gaze of the male who'd been with her in the statue. His hand was up next to his temple, and though he wasn't sure what would happen, IX knew the prelude to an attack when he saw one. "Her mind is locked within mine. If you harm me, you'll harm her as well." While he spoke, IX drew Jean up and turned her to face the new arrival. His hand remained on her throat, and her height was enough to shield him from a direct attack.

Scott took a step towards them. "Jean!"

"Stay where you are." IX said, his hand closing even tighter, causing the woman to stop breathing all together.

He stopped, and held his hands up. "Stop, you're choking her." Each word grated with the need for action and the fear of it. IX's grip released enough for her to gasp, the exhale was a silent scream.

"What are you doing to her?" he demanded.

"She entered my mind uninvited, so I'm allowing her to relive my memories."

IX's eyes slid to the side when a bald man in a wheelchair appeared behind Scott. He felt something nudge the outside of his mind and attempted to grab it, but it was gone as fast as it came. "Another telepath?"

"Yes. Let Jean go." Xavier's fists gripped the armrests of his chair hard enough to hurt, but kept his voice calm. The scratch in his mind from IX's hook burned, warning him against trying another invasion. Jean's mental screams echoed in his mind, begging him to save her. "We won't harm you if you release her."

"Are you the leader of this enclave?"

"I am."

Scott shifted impatiently beside him, every muscle vibrating with the need to attack. Xavier reached out and touched his arm. The muscles jumped under the touch, but he settled back into a more neutral stance.

"Where is Remy Lebeau?"

"He left after you were brought in." Xavier confessed, hoping the news wouldn't make the assassin act rashly. Instead, his face remained smooth and untroubled.

"Where is X?"

"He is no longer with us." Xavier's said, not wanting to explain what had happened to the other mutant. Something told him the reaction to that wouldn't be as placid.

IX tilted his head slightly. "You're lying. Do you want to know what is happening to her right now?"

Xavier swallowed hard, his navy eyes darted from Jean's tormented face to IX's blank one. "What are you doing to her?"

"I'm killing her."

Scott jerked a step forward, but Xavier caught his arm and held him back. "Explain," he demanded, knowing he wouldn't be able to keep the other man from attacking for long.

"During my training I was forced to learn to fight in a unique way. Through integration with a mental training program, I fought opponents who were stronger than me until I could beat them. It took a long time to reach that point. I long lost count of the number of times they killed me. It only took twenty-three deaths to shatter the mind of the last telepath who invaded my mind. The woman has already died six times while we've been talking. How many deaths do you think it will take to break her? Where is X?" IX's voice never changed from its perfect monotone and both men knew that he wouldn't stop. There was no more mercy in him than there was in a marble statue.

"IX, please let her go, we can talk about X when she's free."

"Scream for them," IX said.

Suddenly the room was filled with Jean's unearthly howls of anguish.

The door behind him hissed open. IX didn't have to look back, his power recognized the presence.  _X, good now we can get out of here and return to base. I'll take the woman with us. That will make up for the telepath I ruined. The Doctor will be interested in her duel powers._ He half turned to reach behind him for X when he froze, unable to comprehend what he was seeing.

"Knock it off," X snarled.  _But he…what?_

A massive fist plowed into the side of his head. IX could have dodged the blow, would have, if it had been anyone else. But he'd never imagined X turning against him, and God punishes us for the things we can't imagine. Darkness roared through his mind and he felt the woman slip free as he sank back into unconsciousness.

* * *

Logan had been exploring the underground base when the screaming started. It was curiosity more than anything else that lead him to the sound. He'd found the doctor first, still out cold but breathing. After picking him up and putting him on the bed where IX used to be, he followed the delicious aroma of the tiny assassin. Even though he flat out refused to admit how intoxicating it was, he couldn't help but follow where it led.  _Yeah, and I have no doubt that he'll be wherever the screaming is,_ he thought, remembering the Professor's opinion of IX.

When he came upon IX, his captive, and the other two helplessly standing by, his stomach twisted. The sound of the woman's screams grated on him, but it was the mindless animal roar in his head that made things so much worse. Logan stalked forward without thinking, and when IX turned towards him and he caught sight of those bottomless green eyes X went mad inside his head.

"Knock it off," Logan snarled at X and IX both before he lashed out, striking the one he could reach.

He fell with IX. Agony ripped through his head as X attacked the cage with a mindless fury he didn't think he could contain. "Help…me," he rasped, his hands clenched over his temples in a futile effort to keep the monster inside his head.

Instantly, the Professor's mind sank into his and pressed down into the caged monster's mind. The roaring reached a crescendo and fell silent as the Professor forced X into sleep.

* * *

Jean's mind was catapulted out of the Hellscape and back into her own body with enough force to send her sprawling. Tiny helpless sounds she refused to name fell from her lips while she tried to get ahold of herself. Instead of attempting to stand, she crawled away without looking back. Every instinct inside her shrieked to escape, to put as much distance between her and the monster as possible.

Arms wrapped around her, ripping another terrified scream from her tortured lungs. Jean's nails raked across the skin touching her earning a pained cry. Something in the sound tried to break through the panic, but couldn't. "Please!" She screamed.

"JEAN!" Scott bellowed, dodging another swipe of her claw-like hands. Blood trickled from the scratches gouged in his left cheek, but he hardly noticed save for the fact that she'd almost caught his visor. He wrapped himself around her, crushing her to his chest while yelling her name. Finally, her struggles began to ease, and her screams tapered off into hopeless little whimpers that tore his heart. "Shhhh, that's it Jean. I've got you. You're safe." He rocked her, but his eyes remained locked on the small shape crumpled on the floor. Everything in him demanded he reach up to blast the creature. Keeping it alive was purest insanity.  _Not safe. We'll never be able to keep him here, and we can't let him free._ His fingers twitched with the need to end the problem now before it took something from them they wouldn't get back.

Xavier's dark eyes captured his. No words or thoughts were shared, but he could feel the old man's disappointment.  _You're too soft. Don't let it get us killed_ , he thought furiously. But he bent his head to Jean's, pressing himself against her instead of giving in to the temptation.

* * *

"Pick him up and come with me if you please." Xavier's voice cut through the blessed silence inside his head. Logan grumbled under his breath that he wasn't a pack mule, but he gathered the small form to him as he stood anyway.

This close, his jaws ached to bite the teen, and the thought made him feel sick.  _Who the hell daydreams about biting people? How fucked up am I?_ His lips pealed back in disgust at himself even as his cock began to stir with every breath he took.

Careful not to clench his fists, less he crush one of the boy's delicate limbs, he stiffly followed the Professor back into the medical lab.

Dr. McCoy sat with his feet dangling over the edge of the exam table. He had a wad of paper towels pressed against his face, blood dyed the crumpled sheets a brilliant red. The part of his face they could see easily conveyed his feelings when he saw them.

"And here is our wayward coma patient," the words came out slurred due to the broken nose, and his blue eyes locked accusingly on Xavier's. "You could have warned me that he would wake up without any damage."

Xavier smiled. "You're just upset that he knocked you out. Besides, you're the one who told me he wouldn't recover. Not the other way around." Hank snorted, adding another spray of blood to the wadded paper.

"Fine, fine. Be that way. I'm still blaming you for this. Anyway, put him here." Hank said, waiving to the bed he slipped off of with a hop big enough to get him to the other side of the shattered glass. He shook his head.  _Lucky the little bastard didn't take my eyes out with that mess._ There were several shallow scratches across the bridge of his nose and cheeks, but he'd managed to avoid getting a shard in the eye.

With a low growl, Logan set IX down on the bed and backed away. Even with X silent for the moment, he found it much harder to let go than it should be. "If you two think you can handle one little kid, I'm going back to my room." He didn't give them a chance to respond before stalking out the door.

_Thank you Logan_ , Xavier's thought clanged in his mind, and he grunted in response.

* * *

Hank scowled at Logan's back as he left. "Well, isn't he just a ray of sunshine?" He refused to admit that the man's words miffed him.  _Not my fault, he caught me by surprise is all. Might as well expect a pumpkin to attack. It shouldn't have been possible. Damn logic anyway._

Xavier gave another enigmatic smile. "Even rain clouds have their uses. He did stop IX after all." Hank gaped at him.

"What do you mean he stopped IX? I thought they were partners?"

"No. X was IX's partner. Logan's just a man without a memory and a homicidal passenger locked away inside his mind."

Hank scowled at that, but focused on the enigma before him. With the skill a crack addict would envy, he slipped a new needle into IX's slender arm. The solution he pumped into the assassin was laced with a heavy sedative that would keep even the most powerful mutant unconscious until he chose to stop it. "That's comforting. Are we sure letting him wander about is the best idea in the world?"

"Probably not. Though I haven't the slightest idea how we can keep someone like him locked up. His adamantium claws are more than enough to get through even our strongest cells, and his healing factor would eat through any drugs you tried on him." Xavier let the thoughts trail off, leaving it open for Hank to provide a solution if he had one.

The blue mutant grunted, refusing to take the bait. Instead he began running a battery of tests on IX. A few minutes later he whistled. "Oh my stars and garters, look what we have here. It seems X isn't the only one with unheard of healing prowess."

"See?" He handed over the sheet with IX's newest CAT scan.

Xavier's eyes instantly went to the place that should still be dark from his attack and found nothing. "Completely healed?" He couldn't quite keep the disbelief out of his voice.

"Without a bit of scaring or anything to indicate he was damaged to begin with."

"Amazing. Were you able to find a way to repress his power?" Xavier asked.

Turning, Hank padded over to another cluttered bit of work table. He tinkered for a few minutes before returning and handing Xavier a small band of metal about an inch wide and three inches long. The metal was curved.

"I worked it out, the only real problem is that it needs to be placed over the base of his skull and there's no way a strap will work." Xavier fingered the four tiny holes, one near each corner of the device. "It'll have to be screwed into the bone to work," Hank said, studying his friend's face as he shifted uneasily at the inhumane declaration.

"Do it."

"Really? I mean, I could maybe try and figure out ano-"

"No Hank. This is the best way, correct?"

"All of the other methods I've devised leave wiggle room where he'll be able to get it off," Hank admitted.

Xavier closed his eyes and nodded. "We can't let him free. You know that, don't you?"

Hank snorted. "Damn straight. I'm not stupid Charles, and I know how much this goes against everything we are. But this is a lesser of two evils choice if I've ever seen one. This man is part of a group that actively hunts mutants. If we let him go he will be back, and he won't be alone. If we aren't willing to kill him, then we must do all that we can to make him safe."

"Yes. I wouldn't ask this of you if there were any other choice."

"How long are we going to keep him?" Silence met the question. Hank looked up and saw sorrow on Charles's face.

"Forever my friend."

Hank swallowed, but nodded in agreement. Pain throbbed in his face, and he knew without a doubt that IX could have killed him if he'd wanted to. "I wonder why he didn't kill me."

"Because you weren't his primary objective. He's still fixated on killing Remy. However, I think if he hadn't taken you by surprise and you put up more of a fight he would have."

Nodding, Hank eased IX onto his stomach to expose the back of his head. Then he used a pair of hair clippers to sheer through the thatch of black at the base of his skull. Once the hair was little more than dark stubble, he positioned the device above the brainstem where the nano technology was densest. The sound of screws going into bone made his stomach roll, but he didn't stop. Finally each screw was in place, tightening the small rectangle of metal down far enough that IX wouldn't be able to get under it.

With a few deft strokes on the computer, he activated the device. A small green light flicked on. "There we go. His powers are no longer accessible to his conscious mind."

"Alright," there was weight to the word, acceptance of what had to be. "Let's take him down to one of the holding cells." IX would be the first mutant housed there since their construction. Part of Xavier thought he might have to put Erik down there one day, but for now it was perfect for housing one powerless assassin.

* * *

IX woke to throbbing pain in the back of his skull. Each pulse seemed to echo inside his head in time with his heart beat.

_Knock it off._

The memory woke a new pain along the side of his head where X's fist had crashed into him. Where X had attacked him. Sick heat throbbed in his chest at the memory.  _Knock it off._  What had they done to X? He'd never spoken before. Couldn't speak, as far as IX knew.

_It doesn't matter. Yes it does, they ruined him. No it doesn't, I'll take him back, get him to the Doctor. He'll fix it. The doctor didn't create us. Doesn't matter. Escape first, the rest can wait._

Sitting up, IX looked around the pristine white room…white cell. The front of the cell was made of a clear substance he doubted was glass. A single glance showed the door to be the only exit. In the right corner was a shower head, a drain for the water, and a small container lodged in the wall that he assumed held soap. Near the shower was a sink and a toilet. He sat on a single bed welded to the wall. There was a set of built-in shelves holding clothing, and next to that a small opening, big enough for him to put clothing or trash in, but not large enough for him to fit through.

He stood up and headed for the door. Reaching up, he laid his hand against the cold surface and whispered "Open."

Nothing happened. IX blinked and tried again with the same result. Closing his eyes, he felt for his power and found nothing. It wasn't like the times when he'd nearly worked himself to death. There was no crippling exhaustion, and he didn't feel drained to the point of collapse. Instead it felt like the power was there, but he couldn't reach it.

The half-forgotten pain in the back of his skull throbbed again. IX reached back and felt the new addition to his person. His fingers traced lightly over the shape before his nails started to dig underneath it.

"Stop."

He didn't jump at the unexpected command, but he did let his hand drop back to his side as his eyes casted about for the source.

"The device on the back of your cranium was designed to suppress your ability to consciously access your mutant abilities. It also contains a small explosive charge that will detonate should you attempt to remove it." The strange voice informed him, its tone grave.

"I understand."  _There_ , his dark gaze locked on the small black hole in the ceiling, marking the source of the audio. He found other small openings throughout the room, showing where cameras observed his every move. There were others outside his cell, where he wouldn't be able to reach if he attempted to disable them.

"You are our captive. From this day forth, you will remain in this cell. You will be given three meals a day and will come to no harm by our hand."

IX gave a silent snort at that proclamation.

"What did you do to X?" he asked.

"That is not your concern."

Another spike of heat jolted through him before fading.  _It doesn't matter._  Turning back to the door, he explored the edges, searching for weaknesses. There had to be a way out of this cage, he would find it.

* * *

Hank frowned at the small image on his screen. He'd expected more questions, or anger, or threats, or demands to be released, something. "Do you think he believed me about the bomb?"

"Yes," Xavier watched the screen as well. During Hank's speech, he'd been lightly touching the other mutant's mind. The fact that he'd been able to do so without being caught in the mental trap that snared Jean strengthened his belief in Hank's device. He was able to read IX's mind without his presence being sensed. "It didn't even cross his mind we might be lying. Then again, the group he was with used explosive collars for the stronger mutants. It's a tactic he's familiar with and would expect."

"True." He continued watching and couldn't help the unease he felt while IX explored every inch of his new enclosure. It wasn't like an animal finding itself in a cage. Every movement was purposeful and seeking, testing. "Are you sure it will hold him?" Hank couldn't help but ask. They'd thought the brain damage would keep him down, but it hadn't. Even without his powers, would he be able to escape?

"I honestly don't know. That's why I want to have someone on guard at all times. I'll set up shifts so that he'll never have the chance to get out without us knowing instantly."

"Hmm, I can rig it so that the cameras feed into our tablets, that way we don't have to waste too much time in here," Hank offered.

"Perfect. I'll also keep a close watch on his thoughts. Now that it's safe, I should know before he breaks free if he comes up with a plan that might work."

* * *

IX closed his eyes and pressed himself closer to the door. The bit of wire he'd managed to dig out of the mattress prodded at the thin crack without sliding through.

_Complete the mission._  The thought throbbed in the back of his mind like a rotten tooth while he tried to learn a new skill he'd never needed before. It wasn't working, and he suspected the door wasn't the sort with a lock that could be picked. That didn't stop him from trying. He had to do something.  _Finish the mission._

It was the third day of captivity and thoughts of the mission had begun to plague him after the first. Nights were the worst. No matter how he twisted and turned, no position was comfortable. The thin blanket couldn't keep the chill away until he realized the blanket wasn't the problem. The problem was X. Of course it was. How could he sleep alone? It was one thing to sleep alone on a mission. As part of a mission, it was something he could wrap his mind around and though he didn't care for it, he could force himself to sleep for the good of the mission.

Now? He couldn't sleep. Not without the steady thrum of X's heart beneath his ear. Not without the rise and fall of that great chest or his hot mouth nibbling on IX's throat. He even missed the sharp jab of his stiff penis grinding into his lower belly on those nights when X dreamed.

He hadn't slept which made it difficult to fight against the pulsing thoughts about the incomplete mission. The only mission he hadn't finished was the Liberty Island one. Though he'd technically achieved the objective, he'd been incapacitated for the end due to healing X. The problem slowly driving IX insane now was the fact that he was awake and able to move. Even though he couldn't access his power, it didn't matter. He had to complete the mission.  _Had_  to.

A new sound hissed into the room, and IX jerked upright in the darkness. His eyes widened, trying to catch any scrap of light and failing. Then dizziness swept him and he understood.  _Poison gas._  Silently cursing his lack of power, IX sank to the floor, once more forced into unconsciousness.

When he woke again, the lights were on indicating it was daytime. The lack of windows made it impossible to know for sure, but the lights came on and went off in a predictable pattern that likely mirrored the rising and setting of the sun.

A slight frown touched his lips when he sat up. It took him a second to realize the mattress beneath him had been removed and replaced with a thin foam pad. Closing his eyes, he fought of the mild nausea left over from the knockout agent and began to formulate a new plan.

* * *

Pietro sat on the lick of beach surrounding the lake, his ass in the sand and his feet dipped in the cool water. For the past three days, they'd gotten used to the feel of the mansion and suffered the unbearable torture of Ms. Storm and her never ending placement exams.  _Thank God that's over,_  he thought as he plunked another stone into the water. His dark eyes watched the ripples, and he fought to keep his thoughts from straying but couldn't help himself.  _You would have loved it here, Sis._ Before he could slip further down into the depressing memories, someone plopped down next to him.

He glanced over and frowned. "You know, you can take the hoody off right? Pretty sure no one here will freak out about it." Amber eyes flashed at him from the depths of the hoody and her tongue flicked out at him.

"Sure, that'ss what you think. But you look normal like the resst of them. The last thing I want is ssome blond bitch sscreaming in my face about how much sshe hatess ssankess." Bitterness made the words taste like poison in the air.  _She's hissing her s's more than usual_ , he thought as he reached out to twine his fingers with hers. At first she tried to jerk her hand away, but he kept his grip tight enough to make escape difficult but not quite enough to hurt.

"Hey, come on. Green's my favorite color. Who cares what a bunch of girls think anyway? Most of them are just airheads."

Adelaide huffed at him, but he could see a small smile in the depths of her hood. "Come on. You're roasting in that thing, I know you are. Look, if anyone gives you shit about it, I'll give them an ultra-wedgy before they even know I moved. Kay?"

That earned him a small giggle, and he grinned in response. Reaching out, he gently tugged the heavy sweatshirt over her head making her black page boy haircut spike up wildly from the static before she ran her fingers though it in an attempt to tame the mess. Her wide amber gaze darted to his face before her head dropped a bit, trying to hide behind the short hair.

Pietro reached out and touched her chin lightly with his fingertips. "No hiding. Not anymore," he whispered. She let him tilt her head up enough to catch the sunlight. It glittered off the brilliant green scales lining her cheeks and made her eyes seem to glow. The rest of her skin was startlingly pale, giving her an ethereal Sleeping Beauty meets the Dragon sort of look. If she was a bit older, he would have kissed her. "There, much better," he said before he reached out and ruffled her hair.

"Hey! Stop it, you're making it worsse." He laughed and reached out to poke her lightly in the ribs making her hiss with laughter too.  _Yes, you would have loved it here sister. I'll just have to love it enough for both of us._

A shadow fell over them causing Adelaide to jump and reach for her hoody. Pietro was faster, snatching the garment up and holding it away from her. Her slit pupil eyes narrowed at him, but she didn't try and get it back. Instead he watched her face blank, the same look so many of them had worn when the Doctor came for them as she steeled herself for the ridicule even as her eyes pleaded with him to keep her safe.

Together they turned to see a tall boy standing behind them. Instead of flinching when he saw Adelaide, he smiled. "Welcome to Mutant High. I'm Bobby Drake," his smile broadened as he held up a hand and a tiny ice snake appeared in his palm. He offered it to Adelaide. "Iceman."

Anger and amusement fought a nasty little battle in Adelaide's heart before she settled on amusement. It helped that his dark eyes were so openly honest. No hint of malice lurked in their depths. With a shy smile, she reached out and plucked the tiny figure out of his palm. The amusement changed again, this time shifting to amazement when she saw the amount of detail in the tiny figure. From the tiny little forked tongue to the intricate scales, it was a perfect serpent. "Wow," she breathed even as the details began to blur as the shape melted her hand. "Too bad they don't lasst." Looking up, she offered a small grin. "Still pretty amazing. I'm Adelaide Wesst by the way. Um, I don't have a sspecial extra name or anything." A faint blush touched her cheeks at the admission.

"No problem. You have plenty of time to think of one. It's kind of a tradition here, though you don't have to do it if you don't want to." Bobby turned to offer his hand to Pietro.

"What no pretty ice sculpture for me?" Pietro pouted.

"Nope, that's only for the ladies," he gave Adelaide a playful wink, which caused the blush to deepen to rose.

Pietro scowled and flung an arm around her shoulders. "None of that now! She's just a kid."

She stuck her black forked tongue out at him, flicking the tip of his nose. "Am not, I'm fourteen! That's totally a teenager you know. I'm not a kid anymore."

"Pishaw. You're still a young pup yet, and way too young for his flirting." Pietro turned back to Bobby, something hard glinted in his eyes for a second before he vanished.

Bobby blinked in shock, only to stumble forward and almost fall into the lake from the hard push against his back. Then Pietro was in front of him, giving another almost too hard push to his chest to balance him out again before he reappeared at Adelaide's side. "I'm Pietro Maximoff, but you can call me Quicksilver."

Grinning, Bobby held his hands up in surrender. "Nice to meet you Pietro, no worries, I already have a girlfriend."

"Oh, well alrighty then." The dark look left his face, and he nudged Adelaide playfully. "Looks like you've got your work cut out for you." She glared and tried to dump a fist full of sand over his head but he was gone before the first gains could land.

"Cheater!" She shouted when he reappeared behind Bobby.

"Don't use me as a shield," Bobby cried, trying to get out of the way so he wouldn't get hit by the mud ball Adelaide flung their way.

"So, where did you two come from?" He asked, trying to distract them both to escape the full-fledged mud fight her eyes were promising. All good humor fled her face as if he'd slapped her. Without a word, she turned and walked towards the water to wash her hands. Bobby silently cursed himself when he recognized the look. It was as stupid question, one he should have known better than to ask.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have-"

"Nah, it's fine. Not like we'll be able to keep it a secret forever." Pietro interrupted. He saw Adelaide's shoulders hunch as she bent to wash, but she didn't turn and tell him to shut up so he continued. "Have you heard anything about the mutants who were being experimented on by the military?"

Bobby's jaw dropped. "No. No way, they can't do that."

Adelaide gave a bitter laugh that sounded like it wanted to be a sob. Staring off into the distance, Pietro said in a hollow voice, "Yeah, they can. My," he stopped, almost choking on the next word before he cleared his throat. "My sister and I were captured in Europe after our parents were killed by villagers." Pain made his voice tight.  _My fault damn it, if they hadn't caught me stealing it would never have happened._ "We were drugged and taken to the facility. There well…it wasn't…it was horrible. The Doctor didn't give a shit about me, but he was fascinated by…" he couldn't finish.

"The Doctor was always more interested in the girls instead of the boys, no matter what our powers were," Adelaide's voice picked up where he left off, each word a pained whisper. "We were kept in cagesss that negated our power if we had a power that would let us esscape. Not that we could esscape, even if we wanted to. Not with…with IX there to get us if we tried. That's what happened to Alice. She tried to get away."

"I didn't know that," Pietro said, biting his bottom lip. In the medical lab he'd been too focused on protecting the girls to really register IX's presence. It was only after they'd been settled away from the killer that the rage broke past the terror. He couldn't believe he hadn't attacked the bastard when he had the chance.  _Yeah right, you're a fucking coward. There he was, the monster that killed your sister and you didn't do a damned thing about it,_ self-hatred clutched his heart in its skeletal fist and squeezed.  _Next time Wanda, I promise._

"Alice?" It was hard to get the word out. Bobby couldn't believe what he was hearing, but now that he looked at them, he could tell they'd had a hard time of it. They had the underfed look of street kids, but it was the hollows under their eyes that told the truth of too many sleepless nights.

Adelaide looked down, letting her dark bangs hide her eyes. "She got out with us, but before we got out she ran. Tried to anyway. When they brought her back to the cages, she was missing her left leg." A tremor wracked her small frame. Pietro appeared next to her, his arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders as he tucked her against his side. Like Alice, she turned her face to hide it against his chest. "After they brought her back…sshe told me. Oh God. Sshe told me how IX caught her and brought her back to the Doctor. How he cut her l-leg off while sshe was ssstill awake, how IX burned it up in front of her." The words spilled out of her in a horrified rush, as if she couldn't keep them bottled up anymore before she dissolved into sobs.

Pietro's arms wrapped around her. Together they clung to each other. Over her head, his eyes met Bobby's shocked gaze. "We're the only three left. They killed the rest." He swallowed hard. "There were hundreds of mutants kept in that living hell, and we're all that's left."

"I'm sorry." Bobby flinched at the hollow sounding words, but he had to say something. But what could he say? What wouldn't sound utterly pathetic in the face of their suffering? Nothing. That's what. Not a single damned thing. Pietro gave him a pained smile.

"So am I."

* * *

Alice fought not to cry. Every muscle in her arms shook and another bead of sweat rolled into her eye. The sharp sting did it, she tried to keep the cry locked in her throat, but couldn't. Her arms gave out. Blue furred hands caught her around her tiny waist, keeping her from falling.

"It's alright Alice. That was expertly done. You'll have these bars mastered in no time."

"No I won't," the words were half lost in her tears. Her stump throbbed and she silently cursed her new leg. It was impossible. They were just making fun of her and trying to get her hopes up. They wanted to see her suffer even more. "Why are you doing this?" She sobbed.

Hank scooped the small girl up and settled her on one of the padded benches in the gymnastics room. The double bars let her attempt to walk while still having the use of her arms to provide most of the support, but he knew it was difficult for her. After the amputation, she hadn't been given any physical therapy. The muscles in her stump and her whole leg had atrophied enough that learning to simply take her weight again was almost unbearable.

Every tear was like a paper-cut to his heart. "I know it's hard, little one, but I believe in you. You're strong enough to beat this. They took so much from you, but we will gain this back. I promised you when we got your new leg fitted that you would walk again, didn't I?"

"Yes," she sniffled.

"And I'll be with you for every step, every tear. That's another promise. If you need a shoulder to cry on, I'll always be right here for you. If you need to rage and scream, scream at me." He gave her a playful grin. "I'll even let you punch me." She gave him a watery smile at that.

"How about taking a swim? I'm sure the cool water would feel amazing right about now. What do you think?"

Like children the world over, Alice couldn't hold back a grin at the thought of swimming. "Yes, please."

Twenty minutes later they found themselves treading water in the large pool. Hank usually avoided the pool, but all it took was a single look from those crystal blue eyes and he was lost. After he eased her into the water, he leapt in after. Her playful giggles when he came up looking like a half drowned oddly blue dog made it all worthwhile. Anything to chase the haunted look from her eyes.

"Dr. McCoy?" Kitty's voice rang through the room and bounced off the walls. Hank sank into the water until only his eyes peeked out. He grumbled under the water, wondering why she of all people had to find them. Why couldn't it have been anyone who wouldn't tell the rest of the school? A small tug on his back fur brought him out of his disgruntled thoughts.

Alice clung to him like a lemur pup to her mother during an all-out lemur battle. He gritted his teeth into the semblance of a smile when she gave a particularly sharp yank.

"Hello Kitty," Hank mentally patted himself on the back for not sounding like he was a cat whose tail was being yanked by a toddler.

_Splash!_  Kitty leapt into the pool, her delighted laughter seemed ring like bells at having caught him in sopping wet in the pool.  _If she makes a single joke about blue fur balls, I'll dunk her a good one._

Kitty swam towards them with the agility of a young otter, and the twinkle in her eye promised mischief. Then he felt his little passenger shift, a small white blond head appeared over his shoulder, husky blue eyes peaking at the stranger. Kitty's smile changed in an instant to one of welcome. "Hi! Oh another girl. Perfect. Oh my gosh, your eyes are so pretty. Do you like to shop? I love shopping. I'm Kitty, Katherine Pryde, Kitty to my friends. We'll be friends right?" Suddenly Kitty's eyes widened into a perfect imitation of Puss in Boots from Shrek.

A headache flared in Hank's head at Kitty's nonsense. How the girl could string so many words together without breathing always amazed him. Still, she would be good for Alice, he knew.

"Um…hello. Yes? I'm Alice Smyth," the shy words came out a little squeaky, but Kitty had that effect on people the first time.

"Yay!" Suddenly Kitty was climbing his front to get to her new friend and it was all Hank could do not to sink under the weight of two teenage girls.

"Kitty!"

"Oops, sorry," she said, not sounding sorry in the slightest. "Come on!" She held out a hand to Alice, ignoring the flash of fear in the other girl's eyes. "It'll be fun, promise." And like so many before her, Alice reached out and was swept away by hurricane Kitty.

Hank sat on the edge of the pool, ignoring the way the chlorinated water made his skin itch beneath the fur as he watched the two young girls splash and play together. Kitty hadn't asked a single question when she noticed Alice's missing leg, and she'd deftly steered all conversation away from dangerous waters. Instead, she chatted gaily about her friends, about the school, about the mall, and anything else that came into her mind. All the while, she drew Alice along with her and got the maimed sixteen-year-old to relax and forget, if only for an hour or so, everything that had happened.

They were just two teens having an afternoon of fun in the swimming pool. Happiness filled Hank at the sight, and he knew he owned Kitty a trip to the mall for this.


	22. Breaking Free

"He that hath deserved hanging may be glad to escape with a whipping." – Thomas Brooks

* * *

_Obey your wielder in all things. Complete the mission. Why are you still here? Complete. The. MISSION._

Pain throbbed behind IX's eyes with each mental repetition, but it was a loop he was incapable of silencing. It felt like spikes of ice were being drilled into his temples, sinking deeper into his brain with every passing second. Like a computer given a command it couldn't complete, IX's mind began to crash under the pressure of not being able to finish the mission.

His face remained blank, masking the growing instability. The scientists had never considered what might happen if he was captured and kept from fulfilling an order. Had they known, they would have been pleased. What better weapon than one that would self-destruct if it fell into enemy hands?

He paced the confining white space. IX always thought the mutants who lost it after a couple of days confinement were weak, now he had a greater understanding of what drove them. It felt like the walls were closing in on him. Though his cell was larger than the cubical sized cages his previous charges were kept in, it was still small enough to induce claustrophobia.

On his 209th circuit around the room, IX turned and slammed his fist into the door with enough force to fracture his wrist. A jagged bolt of pain shot up his arm, but it didn't mar his features. Nor did it distract from the shark like thoughts circling his fatigued mind, ready to tear him apart if he let his guard down. Letting his arm drop once more to his side, IX continued pacing. He turned the wrist, sending fresh waves of pain bouncing up and down the limb as he walked.

* * *

Xavier rubbed at his left temple in a vain attempt to ease the growing headache. His wrist gave a sympathetic twinge of pain. It had been less than a week, but he'd become almost too attuned to IX's slowly fracturing mind.

Any hope of locking the teen away and having everything turn out alright had faded away under a tide of thoughts that were becoming more disjointed by the day. But what to do? How could he break through and get IX's mind (not healthy, that wasn't possible) stable again? A glimmer of an idea flicked across his mind like a bolt of distant lightning.

Hoping for the best, but guarding against the worst, Xavier left his office and went to find Logan.

* * *

"You have got to be joking," Logan said, splitting a glare between Xavier and Dr. McCoy.  _What the hell are they thinking? The kid is locked up, he's not going anywhere. Why not let sleeping sociopaths lie? Now way this ends any place I want to be._

Hank ran his claws through the blue fur of his chin before reaching up to adjust his glasses. Personally, he was in agreement with the ex-weapon. Although he could observe IX's growing agitation, he failed to see how the Professor's plan would do anything to alleviate it.

"All you have to do is go in there and spend a little time with him. Talk to him. Let him know that he doesn't have to complete the mission. Perhaps if he hears it from you, he'll believe it." Charles said. It was a far-fetched idea, but Xavier's mental reassurances had fallen on a deaf mind. IX hadn't even acknowledged him save for a slight flicker of irritation that he couldn't use his power to drag Charles down into a living nightmare the way he had Jean.

Logan snorted. "Yeah, right. I'm sure all he needs is a lecture about how he just needs to be a good boy and not kill all the other children. That'll straighten him right out." Charles frowned at the feral.

"X was his companion for years. I'm certain that your words will hold more weight than mine. Either way, we have to do something before his mind tears itself apart."

Logan was about to say something else smart assed when a silvery spike of pain ripped through his mind. It felt like his own claws had been used to rake the inside of his skull. The beast inside roared its fury at the thought of harm coming to the small male, and Logan was half tempted to walk out the room right then to spite the monster. Another jolt of mental agony persuaded him that it wasn't worth the torment he knew X could inflict when he wanted to.

"Fine," he snarled, sounding more like X than he was comfortable with. This was the mother of all bad ideas, but he knew Baldy wasn't about to let him off the hook just because there wasn't a snowflake's chance in hell of it working.

"Wonderful. Be prepared, he might attack you when you enter." Hank said with a fanged grin. Part of him wanted to go in there and pay the brat back for his broken nose, but his inner scientist pointed out that the assassin would probably break more than his nose if he did. Thankfully, for his bones sake, Hank's inner scientist always won out over his pride. Still, the upcoming fight would be amusing to watch. Much better than watching a kid slowly losing his marbles.

"That's reassuring," Logan grumbled.

"Have fun."

* * *

The door hissed open. IX spun, about to attack when his eyes locked on X's face. His frantic thoughts splintered into confusion at the sight of X. Before he could force them back into some semblance of order and attack, the opportunity was gone. The door whispered closed behind the feral, leaving the pair of weapons alone in the white cell.

"You hit me," IX said. The words were bland, but didn't match the spark of fire that leapt in the depths of his green eyes.

Logan scowled and took a step forward. "Yeah. That's what happens when you're torturing people and don't watch your back."

That made the indifferent mask slip. IX glared. "I am your handler. You should have been watching my back, not turning on me."

A low growl escaped him before he could stop it. The room stank of the tiny male, and that made X thrash more in his mind, which in turn made his temper flare. "Look kid, I don't need a fucking handler. I'm not a God damned dog." Another step forward.

Before he could recognize the danger, IX struck. A pale foot lashed out and buried itself into Logan's gut with all the force of a week's worth of pent up madness. A strangled woof escaped Logan, and he fought not to double over.

One massive fist arched out, missing IX's face by half an inch. A small hand gripped the passing wrist while the other hand slammed forward into the elbow joint, tearing ligaments. "They have made you weak. You are better than this." IX said as he drove a knee into Logan's groin. Agony painted the world red. Wounded in body and pride, Logan gave a guttural snarl. The  _shink_  of claws ripping free was loud in the small room, but IX didn't flinch away.

Logan's arms tensed to strike when a new agony tore into his mind. X slammed into his cage in a blind rage. The force of the mental blow staggered him, and he forgot all about IX in his internal struggle to stay in control.

Again IX struck, this time Logan was in no position to attempt a defense. A series of blows designed to inflict the greatest amount of pain rained down on the helpless feral, driving him to his knees.

The biting heat IX felt after X's first betrayal returned and grew fangs. It bit into him with every blow that connected. Every blow that X should have been able to deflect. Thoughts of the mission were forgotten under the lash of his ire at what had once been X.  _You are weak._ It was an intolerable sin, and if IX's power hadn't been blocked, he would have turned his fire on the imposter who now wore X's skin. He was almost positive that his power would be a match for X's healing factor.

Backing up to the far wall, IX ran forward and leapt. His slender body rolled effortlessly through the air as one leg stretched out. His heel slammed into the back of X's bent head, smashing him face first into the cement floor with enough force that the cement cracked beneath X's adamantium sheathed forehead.

Blinding pain erupted throughout Logan's body as he was attacked both inside and out from IX and X. And then the cage holding the monster crashed open. Mental claws tore into his psyche, and Logan screamed as he was ripped from the conscious world and thrown back down into the darkness.

X snarled, twisting instinctively out of the way. IX's foot slammed down where his neck had been a second before. Reaching out, X snatched the foot and jerked IX off balance. He caught the fist headed for his face and twisted it behind his mate's back. His other hand jerked the white t-shirt down just enough for him to bury his teeth in IX's shoulder.

Like a switch being flipped, the fight drained out of IX's body. He hung limp in the brutal grip. All the mental anguish, the strain of being here and of losing X faded into contentment. X rumbled with pleasure, the sound vibrated through IX's body, relaxing him further. His arm was released, and IX found himself enveloped in X's strong grip.  _Home,_ he thought, ignoring the new smells that clung to the larger man. IX focused only on the feel of teeth and the heat of arms holding him almost too tight to breathe.

_The mission._ The thought was a ragged note, ruining the blissful feeling of reunion. "Enough." For once, his voice wasn't monotone. Instead it was rough enough to make X whine low in his throat. IX's fingers stroked through X's hair. All he wanted to do was stay like this, but that was impossible. They had to finish the mission.

"Enough," he repeated. "We have to go. Cut through the door." Even without his power, IX was certain that together they could escape. As long as he had X, they would be fine.

X growled, the deep sound vibrating in his barrel like chest. Even now he could feel the other trying to claw his way back into control, but he refused to be caged again. Not when IX needed him. Turning, he gently flung IX over his shoulder so the smaller male could cling to his back.

Again his adamantium claws slid free of their fleshy confinement. "Hurry." The word was little more than a slurring exhale. IX's grip around his neck failed, and he had to twist and retract his claws to catch his mate before he fell. The instinctual action took too long. Dizziness swamped him, making IX feel like he weighed a thousand pounds. Snarling in fury, he tried to make it to the door, but his legs buckled. He hardly felt the jolt of pain as he fell.

As darkness ate the world, he curled himself around IX in a vain attempt to protect the smaller male with his body.

* * *

"What are you smiling about? That was an unmitigated disaster! We should have knocked them out when it became clear IX wasn't going to listen to Logan," Hank said while scowling at the two unconscious mutants on the screen. His hand had been poised over the knockout button from the first strike, but Charles kept stopping him until it became hopelessly obvious that IX was once again in control of both himself and X.

The curious smile didn't leave Charles's lips. "Perhaps not as much a disaster as you would think, my friend." New pieces of the puzzle were sliding together in the telepath's mind. X was nearly impossible to read. His thoughts were far more animal than human, but his actions? They spoke volumes. Not to mention IX's reaction to him. "Now a great many things make since." Logan's disgust with who he'd once been was only one excuse keeping him away from IX. The truth was a far different beast, as the truth so often was.

"What have you deduced from this little drama?"

"Many things. X's loyalty was never to the people who controlled them. No, it's clear now that IX was his leash in more ways than one. Logan will need to come to terms with what his other half feels for the young man I'm afraid."

Hank's eyebrow lifted, replaying the odd attack in his mind. The bite so deep it bled. The old lacework of scars on IX's shoulder,  _all inflicted by X, I'm certain_ , and most important was IX's reaction to the bite. Not like it was an attack at all, but something else. "I see," he nodded. He hadn't at first, simply because he hadn't thought the emotionless assassin was capable of such feelings, but he couldn't get the image of IX's near blissful smile out of his mind. That wasn't the reaction of a man in distress. Before seeing that, Hank assumed the bite marks were from some odd form of punishment. It hadn't even occurred to him that they'd been inflicted by X, or that they were consensual. Yes, he could see how Logan might find the whole situation disturbing. It added a whole new level of complication for the amnesiac. "And IX?"

The smile faded. Charles's eyes darkened as he studied the pair. He'd kept a mental thumb over the pulse of IX's thoughts throughout the exchange. "Good, bad, and worse I'm afraid."

Hank scowled. Why couldn't there ever be good, great and wonderful news? It was too much to hope for, he supposed.

"Right. Of course it is. Let's start with the good then."

"The good news is that I was correct, at least in part. X's presence did sooth IX's mind. Unfortunately it didn't last long before the compulsion overwhelmed the beneficial effect," Charles said as he steepled his fingers and considered the rest of what he'd observed. "That's the bad news. The worse news is that he would have killed Logan if he still had access to his powers. Even with the obvious attachment between them, he would have burned him alive. I'm afraid that no one and nothing is safe when it comes to IX. There are no lines he won't cross if it will aid him in his mission."

"He sees Logan as a threat then?"

"More than that. He feels active animosity towards the 'Logan' personality. From his point of view, Logan is a usurper in X's body. Because Logan couldn't defend against his attack, he also thinks of the alter as weak. A part of him also feels betrayed by X, making him willing to kill if given half a chance in spite of the fact that he also associates X with home," Charles finished, not hiding how much the murderous thoughts dismayed him.

Unable to form a response to that bit of unsettling news, Hank's eyes slipped back to the screen. The larger body shifted. "Logan's back in control right?"

"Yes."

"Oh good. Looks like he's coming around right on time. IX should remain unconscious for the rest of the night." It had taken the blue doctor days to come up with a drug that would incapacitate Logan without killing anyone else within range of the effects. The best he could do only worked for less than five minutes, but it would do in a pinch.

* * *

The coppery taste of liquid lightning brought him back to the world of the living. It was a taste more potent than the finest liquor and more addicting than crack. Licking his lips, Logan couldn't suppress the low moan. It was then he felt the tiny body curled up beneath him. His traitorous cock perked up and before he could stop himself, his head dipped forward to lick at the sluggishly bleeding wound. The action was so natural it took his mind a second to catch up.

"Fuck," he groaned, leaping away as if the small form had caught fire under him. X rumbled low in the back of his mind, and even though he could feel the other's agitation, it was a distant thing. More like a sleepy growl than the all-out roars he was used to.  _It cost him, the bastard, taking me over wasn't as easy as he thought it would be._  Logan could almost feel the exhaustion radiating out from the cage.

It was then he realized he wasn't in much better shape. Even though his healing factor took care of all the damage dealt by IX, and the knockout agent, it couldn't do shit for the mental agony his fight with X caused. X wasn't the only one who'd been wiped out by their battle. He knew he'd pass out again soon, this time from sheer exhaustion, and there was no way in hell he'd sleep in here with the tiny,  _oh so sexy_ , sociopath.  _Sick. You are so sick,_ he thought, unable to stop his imagination from painting vivid pictures of IX sprawled out beneath him. The taste of IX's blood lingered on his tongue, and his scent clung to him like a serpent.  _Time to get the fuck out of here, no more of the Mad Professor's experiments._ Part of him that Logan was more than willing to blame on X rebelled at the thought of walking away from IX.

Gritting his teeth in irritation, he bent and picked IX up bridal style. The boy felt so light in his arms. Tiny. All the more reason why they would never work out.  _God, even if we did more than bite, I'd probably end up breaking him._ To his utter disgust, his cock gave another hard pulse at the thought, more than willing to give it a try. He almost dropped the boy onto the bed before he turned and made for the door which thankfully slid open at his approach. There was no doubt in his mind that he would have cut the damned thing down if it hadn't to escape the unconscious boy. If only he could escape his own deviant thoughts as easily.  _It's X, that's all. Not me, no way._

The words rang hollow in his mind, and Logan fought the urge to run to his room. He walked stiffly down the hall, not trusting himself to deal with Baldy and Blue boy. Not right now. Right now, he needed a shower.

* * *

After eighteen hours of alternating nightmares where IX wasn't fast enough, and his claws plunged into that delicate body, and erotic dreams where something else plunged into IX's hot flesh, Logan woke up. The slimy state of what was left of the shredded sheets made him wrinkle his nose in disgust,  _he's twelve for fucks sake._ But he didn't look twelve. More importantly, he didn't _smell_  twelve. The intoxicating musk of the man was just that, the scent of a man. Not the clean aroma of a child barely into adolescents.

The fact that his own scent markers were so deeply imprinted on the boy only added to his lust. Everything about IX screamed mate to his feral side. Not the monster the scientists had created in X, but the very base of his mutation.

Shaking his head, Logan grabbed the torn sheets and threw them into the corner. What did it matter anyway? IX made it pretty clear how he felt about Logan. Whatever feelings the assassin might have for X hadn't carried over to him, and Logan wasn't stupid enough to think that would ever change.  _If I wanted him, which I don't._

Frustrated at the circular thoughts that were getting him nowhere, Logan stormed into his bathroom for yet another shower.

Once he'd scrubbed away the sticky mess of sweat and spent seed, he stalked the halls until he found the scent he wanted. He might not be able to do anything about IX, but he'd be damned if he didn't get something done about X.

Logan forgot about the promise to stay in the lower levels. His only thought was on finding Charles Xavier and getting his psychotic little problem taken care of. The few kids he passed along the way took one look at his scowling face and stepped out of the way of the stranger.

With a low growl he couldn't suppress, Logan slammed open the door to Xavier's office. A small brunette girl standing in front of Xavier's desk jumped with a squeak. Her wide eyes met his, and he fought the impulse to let his claws rip free. At least then she'd have a reason to look frightened. Something in that look burned him. It was almost the prelude to memory, though nothing came. Those memories didn't belong to him, and he was thankful. He didn't want to know how many young mutants had looked at him like that when X had been in control.  _Better not to know._

"We can go over the rest later Kitty. Around 2:30 tomorrow?" Xavier's smile didn't falter as he looked beyond her to Logan. "It appears I have another appointment to keep."

Kitty gave Logan one last wide eyed look before she offered a shaky smile. He was  _large_  and it didn't help that he looked a bit like a bear who'd stuck his paw in a beehive. In a word, he looked pissed. She gave Xavier a worried look. Would the Professor be able to handle him?

_I'll be fine my dear. Thank you for your concern. Now I think Logan needs to vent a little, so off you go._

Her smile flared into a grin. "Yes, sir!" she chirped before she turned and ran for the door. Logan tracked the movement and snorted when the girl ran through the door instead of opening it.

"I be that one is a handful."

"Indeed. I thought we agreed that you wouldn't enter the school grounds?" Even though Xavier's tone was mild, the words held a hint of warning.

Logan crossed his arms and glared. "Well, it's not like you gave me your phone number or anything."

Xavier chuckled. "Logan, I may be the most powerful telepath in the world. You don't need a phone to reach me." A sullen heat filled Logan's cheeks at the reminder.

"Why did you really come?"

His lips twitched in an aborted snarl. "You have to do something about X. Look, when it was me, I couldn't even come close to the surface. There has to be some way for you to get rid of him or shove him so far down that he won't know what the fuck is going on in the real world."

_Like I didn't_. The thought was so loud it echoed in Xavier's mind, flavored with a mix of rage and hurt. He wasn't looking forward to the rest of this conversation. Suppressing a sigh, Xavier began.

"I've spent several nights studying what was done to your mind Logan, and I'm afraid that won't be possible."

"What do you mean not possible? It happened to me, didn't it? Why the hell can't you reverse it and make him disappear?" Logan raked his fingers through his hair and fought the urge to shout.

"Please, sit down."

"I'm fine standing," Logan growled, not wanting to remain still long enough to sit.

A line of irritation appeared between Xavier's brows. "Be that as it may, this is going to be a long conversation and I have no intention of getting a crick in my neck staring up at you."

Logan was tempted to refuse, but the need for answers outweighed his childish impulse. Jerking the chair out, he flung himself into it. The wood creaked in protest of the rough treatment, but held. Xavier looked at him with that insufferably tolerant look as if he were one of the teenagers who was having an angsty moment.

"Are you familiar with dissociative identity disorder?" Xavier asked.

Not liking the implications of that question, even though he wasn't certain of its meaning, Logan shook his head.

"It's more common name is multiple personality disorder."

Silence hung in the room like a glass poised at the edge of a desk about to fall. "I'm not insane," each word was low and cold. Logan's eyes locked on Xavier's, and he didn't try to hide his growing anger. Yes, the situation was FUBAR all to hell and back, but that didn't make him crazy.

"I never said you were," there was that damned calm voice again, as if he were a jumper about to take that final step. "However, what was done to you created a mental situation that is remarkably similar to that condition. You and X are two separate and distinct personalities. Here's where things get complicated. You lost so much to whatever was done to you that you aren't the dominate personality any more. X is."

"No. That bastard was made up! He can't be the…the main personality. He's a fucking figment of a mad scientist's imagination." Sweet rage filled him, and he relished the emotion until the cage began to rattle.  _Shit, stay asleep you fucking monster. Sleep forever._

The compassionate look on Xavier's face was like a vile of carelessly flung acid to the face. "How he was formed doesn't matter. All that matters is the fact that you are an alternate personality. That's why you were so completely suppressed before, and only came near the surface when X couldn't cope with a situation that was beyond his animal intellect."

Logan wanted to argue, but he couldn't help remember those strange flashes when IX and X were stuck in the wilderness. X's need to protect IX had called to him, and for reasons he still couldn't understand, he'd responded.  _What do you say when you're told that you aren't a real person? This is crazy._

"You are a real person, Logan."

"Knock that off damn it. Stop crawling around inside my head," he snapped, eyes blazing and fists clenched.

A pained sigh escaped Xavier. "I'm not listening on purpose. You're upset and that makes you shout your thoughts. I can't block them out when you scream them at me." That was new to Logan, how was he supposed to lower the sound of his thoughts?

"Whatever. So X is the dominant personality. What does that have to do with silencing him? If he can take over the dominant position, why can't I take it back?"

"Unfortunately it doesn't work like that. X has more memories than you do, which in turn anchors his personality more firmly than yours. I can't suppress him any more than he is because that would destabilize your mind completely, and you would go insane." Xavier hesitated.

"Spit it out. What aren't you telling me?"

Bracing himself, Xavier continued. "Keeping him suppressed as it is will begin to wear on your mind. Eventually…we're going to have to begin the process of integration."

"Integration. That better not be what it sounds like."

"Yes. As the alternate personality, you can't remain in control forever. The only solution is to merge with X to once again form a single personality."

That was the final straw. Logan leapt out of the chair and slammed his fist on Xavier's desk. "Fuck that. No way in hell am I going to lose myself to that monster. You're insane. You know that? Fucking insane." Without waiting for a reply or any more useless platitudes about how things had to be, Logan stormed out of the room. He slammed the door behind him as if he could shut and lock the door on any further conversations about disorders and integration.  _I can't merge with X. I don't_ want _to merge with that psycho. What the hell kind of solution is that? No. I'll figure something else out. There's no way in hell I'm letting it have control again._

Too furious to pay attention to his surroundings, Logan rounded a corner and felt a small shape bounce off his front. His hand shot out, catching a wrist before the girl could fall. The neck ruffling scent of snake invaded his nostrils at the same instant his eyes were caught by inhuman amber. The thin pupils dilated in terror as the blood drained from the girl's face. Logan's lips curled in an instinctual snarl when the pungent odor of fear struck him an instant before her head darted forward.

"God fucking damn it," Logan shouted when her fangs plunged into his arm. As much as he wanted to jerk free, he forced himself to remain still. The last thing he needed was a pair of snake fangs broken off in his flesh. That would go over well with the Professor.

He didn't have long to wait. Almost as fast as a true snake, the girl was gone. The terror in the girl's face had turned to horror of a different kind. "B-but, you can't talk! You're not…I thought…" her black tongue flicked out, tasting his scent. "You are X," her voice hardened, but still waivered a bit with confusion.

"Perfect. Of all the people I could have run into, it had to be someone who knew X," the words were a bit breathy from the neurotoxins attempting to shut down his nerves system. Scowling, he poked at the blackening wound. It felt like he'd been injected with liquid fire. "That's one hell of a bite you got on you kiddo."

She stared at him in confused horror. He was X but not, and how the hell was he still standing? "Y-you should be dead."

He snorted. "Yeah. I get that a lot," Logan's voice had steadied, and the black rot receded like a movie in reverse as his body healed the damage. "Might want to watch who you go around nipping with those things. Not everyone can heal like I can. By the way, I'm Logan. X's better half, you could say." He offered her his hand along with a wolfish grin that made her cringe.

"Er, right. I'm going to go now. Bye." She turned and fled. Rubbing the back of his neck, Logan sighed.  _At least she didn't run screaming, that should count as progress, right?_ He didn't know anymore. The Professor was right, it was best to avoid the kiddies all together. Rubbing where the bite mark had been, he made his way back down stairs.

* * *

IX stared dully at the ceiling. A sharp ache throbbed in his left shoulder, and he knew he'd lost more time. How long had it been since X? How long since he'd woken up in this white version of hell? He didn't know. All he knew was the pressure was growing. It felt like cinder blocks were being placed on his chest, slowly crushing him into dust.

_The mission._  Yes. The mission. He had to complete the mission. He couldn't complete the mission. Those two opposing realities were tearing his mind to pieces. All of his attempts at escape had ended in failure. Any time he came close, the room would fill with gas, and he'd wake up with all his work undone.

It was intolerable. All of the muscles in his body tensed. IX's jaw locked on the scream burning in the back of his throat, and his fists clutched at the blanket beneath him. He fought grimly against the impulse to fling himself at the door again. Darkness nibbled at the edges of his vision, and his heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might rupture.  _No_ , the word rang like a bell in his mind, driving the darkness back. Slowly, one painful muscle group at a time, he forced his body to relax. He would not lose control of himself again.

The lights flipped off.  _No. It's too soon, or too late._ Pain raked through his mind as he tried and failed to hold on to time.  _They changed the time. They're trying to break me down. No. Why? They haven't asked me any questions. Why are they doing this?_

The pressure continued to build, crushing him in fists of darkness. Grabbing the blanket, IX curled up in a ball beneath it. His fingers worked without his conscious mind noticing. His thoughts continued to oscillate wildly between paranoid fantasies about his captives' motives for messing with the lights to the incomplete mission.

Days passed in the darkness, and he could feel his mind fracture like brittle ice. He had to escape.

The lights turned on, burning too brightly for comfort. IX's blood shot eyes settled on the coil of braided cloth curled up like a snake beside him. Something too sharp to be a smile cracked his dry lips.

_Time to escape._

* * *

Storm huffed under her breath as her red pen slashed through an entire passage.  _Copy/Paste = plagiarism_ , she wrote in the margin. "Looks like I'll need to assign yet another paper on how to properly cite works," she muttered.

The flicker of movement in her peripheral vision drew Storm's gaze to the bank of monitors. Even though Hank uplinked them all to the staff's tablets, she was more comfortable watching from the observation room. Plus it was a great place to grade papers in peace, and it was close to the holding cells in case something went wrong.

A small frown touched her lips as she watched the small mound under the blanket shift. Hopefully she wouldn't have to knock him out again. Storm shuddered at the memory of the teen slamming himself into the door. It wasn't so much that he was trying to break the unbreakable door down with his shoulder, it was the absolute silence he'd done it in. That and his blank face. Watching him slam into the door over and over again without any flicker of emotion was beyond disturbing.

If he followed his usual pattern, he'd spend the next several hours pacing and randomly attacking the door. There was enough time for her to get another two or three papers checked before she delivered his breakfast. Returning her attention to St. John's cobbled together paper, she resumed her assault on the page.

Finished with that assignment, Storm glanced up to the monitors again. Her blood ran cold at what she saw, and her hand darted towards the knockout button before freezing.  _Too late!_

Jerking to her feet, the chair crashed behind her and papers scattered over the floor like feathers from a dove shot by a malicious child. Every second seemed to stretch into minutes, and like a dream it felt like she was moving through quick sand.  _Don't be dead, please don't be dead._

The door to his cell hissed open. Storm ran towards the small hanging figure whose face was already a dusky purple color. He'd made an impromptu rope out of his sheets and used the head of the shower as an anchor. Her left arm wrapped around his slender form and lifted while her other hand worked the knot of the rope until it slipped loose.

She got the rope over his head and was about to lay him on the ground to assess the damage when the limp form came alive in her arms. Brilliant green eyes rimmed in red flashed open and something equally red lashed out at her.  _His toothbrush?_  She thought in confusion when pain tore through her throat. It felt like her front had been doused with coffee, but Storm knew the heated liquid pouring down her chest was blood. Her blood.

IX stepped away from her as she fell, her hands going to her neck in a futile attempt to stem the tide. A clock began ticking down inside his skull. Each second tolled with a single sound: ESCAPE, ESCAPE, ESCAPE.

Blood had splashed across his face and chest, but there wasn't time to clean up. Stepping over the dying woman, IX ran for the door. He kept ahold of the plastic toothbrush that had been sharpened over the past several nights against the painted cement wall next to his bed. It was the only weapon he had, and he would use it on anyone who got in his way.

* * *

_It rarely has more than one part._ Hank nibbled the end of his pen as he studied the crossword clue.  _Four letters, the third an I, hm, hm, hmmm._  A grin split his lips as he brought the pen around and scribbled H-A-I a jagged line cut across the page when a bolt of agony seared through is brain. He lost his grip, and almost landed on his head when he fell from his customary upside down perch.

The message, more images and impressions than words, scalded him with Xavier's urgency. Scrambling to his feet, Hank took off at a dead run for the cells. He choked back the scream of denial when he slammed into the room and saw Storm. Her beautiful pure white hair had been stained crimson, and he thought he was too late. Then one bloody hand reached for him. Cursing his lack of action, he rushed to her side and snatched her up in his arms.

Every second it took him to get her back to the infirmary was paid for in blood. Jean met him at the door and together they fought against time to save her life.

* * *

Scott's hand stroked along the gentle curve of Jean's spine as his tongue stroked over her full bottom lip, begging to be let in. The jasmine scent of her hair surrounded him in the memories of a thousand heated nights. Still she resisted his attentions, but he could feel her will weakening in spite of the fact that the students would arrive soon, and she hated being caught in such an intimate embrace.

The dry tick of the clock on the wall provided a sane counterbalance to their heated kiss as she opened up to him. Her arms circled his neck, pulling them closer together as they feasted on the sweet nectar of each other's lips.

Then his fingers dipped down the back of her black slacks to stroke the soft skin above her tailbone. Growling into the kiss, Jean pushed him away and gave his chest a hard smack for good measure. "This isn't the place for that sort of thing. How many times to do I have to tell you?" she huffed, but delight twinkled in her green eyes. Trying not to smile and ruin the scolding, Jean brought the single red rose still clutched in her left hand up to sniff and hide her lips behind.

Scott gave a sheepish little boy smile. "At least once more, it seems." It was good to see her smile. The past week had been difficult for her, he knew. The dark circles under her eyes were testament to her sleepless nights. When she did manage to fall asleep, her powers would start to go out of control. He was beginning to feel like a character from the Poltergeist movies he'd watched as a kid. Rubbing the side of his nose, he tried to ignore the memory of waking up with his face squashed against the ceiling due to their bed levitating during one of her nightmares.

_We need to talk about her power,_ he thought, knowing it was a problem but not what they could do to fix it. It didn't help that she shut him out whenever he tried to bring it up. If he had to hear 'fine' one more time when he asked if she was alright, he might scream or shake her. Maybe then she'd tell him what IX had done to her. That topic was still utter taboo. Any time he tried to bring it up, she banished him to the living room to sleep. In a school full of children, that was an invitation to endless pranks which made the punishment of sleeping on the couch a thousand times worse for him than it was for other men.

Also, he didn't want to ruin this small moment of happiness for her. Not when her eyes laughed at him and the haunted look had faded a bit.  _We'll talk about it later._

Leaning forward for another kiss, Scott froze when the laughter drained from her face. The rose fell soundlessly from her lax fingers, and his heart fell with it. Dread sank into his bones like teeth of a half-starved beast.

"No," she gasped.

Then something else crossed her face. Rage, raw and inhuman, blazed in her emerald gaze. Her hand darted out to grab his, pulling him towards the door.

"What?" He asked, not wanting to be told, but knowing that it wouldn't stop whatever happened.

" _He_  escaped." The hate in those two words scalded him, but didn't hide the underlying emotion. Not from him. Unbearable terror screamed just beneath the hatred. Scott gripped her hand tighter before tugging her to a stop.

She spun, her hair flying around her like an amber wave. "We have to go. I have to help Hank with Storm. He…" she choked on the words, unable to say it out loud. "Will you?" Again she couldn't finish. This time, he knew what she was asking. Behind his visor, his eyes hardened.

"Yes. I'll take care of him. Go help Storm."

* * *

Resolve hardened Scott's heart as he searched for his quarry. IX had been given too many chances, and unlike Xavier, he wasn't about to let the killer survive. Not after attacking both Jean and Storm. What happened to the kid was awful, he wouldn't deny that, but pity would get them all killed. Keeping IX around was dangerous, and this only proved the point.

He would do what was needed to keep them safe. Xavier would be disappointed, but he'd understand why Scott had to take matters into his own hands. Not everyone could be saved, that was all. They tried their best to help mutants in need, but you couldn't save a person who didn't want help. He'd never met a person who wanted help less than IX.

Another door hissed open. Scott's hand snapped up to his visor, shooting off a blast of crimson light at the small figure running straight for him. IX darted to the side and didn't scream when the blast cut through his left shoulder instead of taking him in the heart.

Before Scott could correct his aim, IX was past him and through the door. He twisted to follow, but staggered to his knees when agony ripped through his side. Without his permission, his hand dropped from his visor to the wound. "Shit," he hissed, trying to push the slick, hot bulge back into himself. The pain was unlike anything he'd felt before, and touching something that should never be touched or exposed to the open air made his stomach churn.

Clamping down on the urge not to look, Scott forced his eyes down. He shifted his hand slightly and had to swallow back bile. A twist of glistening pink intestine pulsed against the palm of his hand.  _Don't throw up, dear God, don't do it,_  he thought hysterically, unable to block the image of his guts spilling out of the wound while he lost his lunch. He didn't look down again.

One attempt at standing proved to be a bad idea. The wound screamed a warning, and his guts shifted unnaturally inside him as if they wanted to rush out.

The sound of boots striding toward him brought Scott out of his panic. Logan came around the corner and paused, his whisky gaze swept over Scott before dismissing him. As the feral passed, Scott reached out and grabbed his pants leg. A hoarse shout tore from his throat when the wound ripped open a little more, but it got the bastard to stop, so it was worth it.

"You can't go after him," Scott said between clenched teeth. Logan glared down at him, and he braced himself for the kick he could see coming in the other man's eyes. Instead, he sneered.

"I can't? What should I do then, drag your sorry ass to the medic?" Logan demanded.

Scott bit back the flood of expletives that wanted to spill from his lips. "You can't stop him." This time, Logan laughed. The condescending sound grated on Scott, but he refused to be dismissed.

"Unlike you, I won't be taken down so easily."

It was Scott's turn to laugh, though it was more of a pained hiss than a sound of amusement. "Right, he won't be able to gut you. But we don't need two out of control weapons running around the school."

Logan's face darkened, and he shifted back to shake the wounded man off.

"Do you honestly believe you can face IX in a fight without losing control of X?" That stopped Logan cold. "That's what I thought. Since you have nothing better to do, how about you help me to the medic?" A low growl that didn't sound very human met the jibe, but Logan bent down and jerked Scott up into his arms anyway. He couldn't keep the scream of agony locked behind his teeth, and he thought he heard the bastard laugh again.

* * *

The muscles in Xavier's shoulders tensed, but he forced himself to remain focused. Scott's pain blazed like a beacon fire on the edge of his mind, and the temptation to crush IX with a thought flared up. It wasn't mercy that stayed his hand. Xavier's powerful mind encircled Ororo's, cradling her in his strength. Every bit of his considerable mental strength was engaged in fighting a battle against death itself.

_Hold on a little longer. I'm here with you, just hold on._  The beautiful light of Ororo's mind flickered weakly, like a candle in the wind, but didn't go out. His hands rested lightly on either side of her head while Hank worked to carefully stich the terrible wound closed. Next to them, Jean grew steadily paler as her blood continued to drain into her best friend.

They'd only had two units of type B - blood and three of O - in the clinic, and she'd already bled out most of that while Hank fought to save her. When they'd run out, Jean offered her own type O - blood to ensure Ororo wouldn't die before Hank finished.

Tears flowed unchecked down Jean's cheeks. Her free hand clung to Ororo's.  _Don't give up, please, don't leave me._  Her heart seemed to thunder in her chest, gladly spilling the life giving liquid into Ororo. In her mind's eye, she saw a young white haired teen scowl and cross her arms, laying down the law for sharing a room with her. She remembered how the hardness in Ororo's pale blue eyes suddenly cracked into laughter.  _Just kidding, but seriously, don't go leaving your under ware all over the place, alright?_ She remembered her nightmares that first year, and how more often than not Ororo would crawl into bed with her to help chase them away. She recalled the first time she'd hesitantly tried to kiss the dark skinned beauty, and the heat that burned her cheeks when Ororo just blinked at her, only to be replaced by heat of a different kind when she finally kissed back.

So many memories.  _Stop it, she's not going to die, this isn't a eulogy._ Jean bit her bottom lip hard enough to taste blood to hold back the sob trying to escape.  _Please don't die._

The door to the medical wing hissed open, and Jean thought her heart might stop dead in her chest when Logan walked in carrying Scott. Blood painted his side and dripped from between his fingers.  _No, this can't be happening,_  she thought, almost standing up before she remembered the transfusion. "Scott!" she cried.

Logan rolled his eyes. "Relax. He's fine. The kid didn't hit any arteries and even managed not to puncture the bowel. He'll keep for a while yet."

"Thanks for that vote of confidence," Scott huffed.

The irritation in his voice eased some of her fear. If he could sound like that, he couldn't be too badly hurt, right? Moving to another bed, Logan laid his burden down. "Move your hands."

"Are you kidding? No way."

Logan growled. "Idiot. You aren't going to be able to hold yourself together much longer. Don't worry, I'll keep you in one piece long enough for the doc to stitch your sorry ass back together." He reluctantly let go, more because he could feel the strength in his arms starting to give way than he trusted the feral not to make things worse. He bit his tongue when his faltering grip was replaced by Logan's stronger one. He had the unpleasant feeling of his insides being rudely pushed back into him and hoped to God he passed out soon.

"She's flat lining!" Hank's shout cut through their sharp banter.

"Damn. Looks like you'll have to hold yourself together a little longer One Eye," was all the warning Logan gave before he let go. Three steps took him to Storm's side. A glance at her neck showed a neat line of stitches. Folding his hands together, Logan moved without thought to begin chest compressions. Hank was already in motion. They worked together as if they'd done so for years. In a way, they had, though not together. Even though Logan couldn't recall where or how he'd gained such knowledge, he wouldn't question it.

Preparing a vasopressin shot, Hank injected it while Logan continued the chest compressions.

* * *

IX didn't stop when the elevator doors opened, revealing the main level of the school. All the pressure that had built during his captivity was gone now that he was in motion. The halls were quiet, most of the students were in the dining room scarfing down breakfast before classes.

Shoving open the final barrier between him and freedom, IX stepped out into the early morning light. He made it down the front steps and half way to the driveway when the girl spotted him. She took one look at his blood spattered cloths and screamed.

Unexpected agony staggered IX. He covered his ears, but that did nothing to stop the sonic waves from lancing through the bones of his skull. Around him, the air shimmered with the raw power of her outburst, shrubs and flowers bent as if in a strong wind, and all the lightbulbs within the range of her ear splitting voice shattered.

Gritting his teeth against the waves of agony, IX drove himself forward. His vision doubled as he closed with her, but it wasn't enough to halt his attack. The agonizing scream cut off in a gurgle as his makeshift blade punctured her right lung. He jerked the shank free and was about to plunge it in again when his wrist was caught in an iron grip.

IX used the grip as a pivot, twisting, he drove his fist into his new target's midsection. Pain shot up his arm as he fractured two of the metacarpal bones in his hand when it plowed into metal instead of flesh. He looked like a statue crafted of liquid metal, and was just as immovable. IX tried to twist out of the unbreakable grip and felt a sharp twinge in his wrist warning against moving farther. Everything in him rebelled at the thought of being captured again, but he knew it was pointless to keep fighting.

There was no sister to threaten here, no poison, no power to melt the mutant into slag. IX was helpless, incapable of escape. Before he could react, the other metallic fist lashed out, breaking his jaw and fracturing both his cheek bone and eye socket. Darkness consumed his vision, and distantly, IX felt his body go lax in the mutant's unbreakable grip. A shrill female scream followed him down into the void, thankfully not the harpy's brain melting cry.

* * *

Colossus fought the urge to hit the stranger again. He almost gave into the urge when Kitty's scream brought him back to himself. She was on her knees, pressing hard on Siryn's chest in an attempt to stop the blood flow.

Siryn's breath wheezed in her chest, and she had to fight for every breath. "Stop…screaming…idiot…" she managed to huff between strangled breaths. That managed to shut Kitty up, even hardly able to breath, Siryn's barbed tongue worked just fine.

"Okay. You're going to be okay, everything's okay. Okay?" Siryn started to laugh, but ended up coughing up blood instead. "Oh my Gosh, Peter, what do I do?" Kitty screamed. She'd never seen so much blood before. It squished between her fingers, and painted her pale hands red.

"What the hell is going on here?" John's voice joined the chaos as he and Bobby ran towards them.

Without answering, Peter shoved IX towards them. Bobby caught the unconscious male before he hit the ground. "Bring him with us. That fucker stabbed Siryn." John's face twisted in fury, and he reached for his lighter.

"No. We don't have time," Peter growled, more than a little tempted to let the pyro light the bastard up. It was only his worry over what would happen to John if he did that kept him in check. Bending down, he gathered the tiny redhead up in his arms.

* * *

_Beep, beep, beep._

Had there ever been a more beautiful sound? Jean didn't think so. She drank in the sight of Ororo's gently rising and falling chest. Every breath was a silent promise that she wouldn't give up.

"Ouch!" Scott's painful cry snapped her eyes up, and she couldn't keep her lips from quirking slightly as he glared at Hank. "Why can't I be asleep for this again?" He whined.

"I already told you, the cut was clean. There's no damage to your insides, and all I need to do is stitch the wound. There's no reason to waste time with anesthesia when I'll be done in a few minutes if you'd just stop squirming. I already gave you a local. Now you're just being greedy."

"I can still feel it."

"No you can't. See, did you feel that?" Hank demanded, poking a bit of flesh with his needle.

Scott's scowl deepened. "No," he muttered.

"Stop being such a cry baby. That little scratch is nothing. I've had hangnails worse than that," Logan drawled as he watched the show.

"Well not all of us can heal within seconds you know. If you had to sit here getting sewn up, you'd bitch too," he shot back.

"Instant healing isn't all sunshine and roses. Pain killers don't work for me. Neither does alcohol."

Scott laughed, then winced. "Sucks to be you."

"There all done. Was that really worth all your caterwauling?" Hank asked while bandaging the freshly stitched wound.

For the second time that endless morning, the door hissed open. Kitty ran in, her hands and cheek smeared with blood.

"Kitty? What's wrong, are you hurt?" Hank demanded, but then she was followed by Peter holding a frighteningly still Siryn. Behind them, Bobby and John dragged IX between them. Lucky for them, the tiny assassin was unconscious.

Rushing around Scott's bed, Hank directed them to a third for Siryn. "Jean? Ororo should have received enough blood now. I need your help here."

The sound of Hank's sharp commanding voice broke Jean's paralysis at the sight of IX. Fear and rage swirled in her veins, demanding release.

"Jean!"

Gritting her teeth, she jerked the needle from her arm and went Hank. "Her lung has collapsed. We'll need to put in a chest tube, then we have to prep her for surgery."

* * *

Logan's pupils dilated when IX's scent hit him. When he saw the little male dangling limply between the two teens, it took everything he had not to lose control. He felt like a man trying to hold a door closed between him and a raging lion. Sweat broke out over his flesh and every muscle hummed with the tension of the internal battle. He didn't move. Every small breath was laced with the mingled scent of blood and IX.

* * *

Exhaustion threatened to overcome Xavier, but he refused to give in. Not yet. X roared in the background of his thoughts, and he knew Logan wouldn't be able to hold him back forever. Focusing on Peter, he thought,  _take IX to the King of Hearts Suite. You know what to do._

The large teen gave a nod and nudged the others out of the room. "Where are we going?" Bobby asked, surprised that John hadn't beat him to it. When he looked over, he saw John's face darkening.

"What the hell are we going there for?" John interrupted.

"That's where the Professor wants him."

John glared down at the dark haired teen. "Still think you should let me roast him."

"Hey, where are we going?" Bobby demanded.

"Don't worry about it ice cube. It's not a place for happy kids like you."

Peter opened another door, revealing a room that would make a monks cell look luxurious. There was a thin pallet on the floor in one corner. In the other was a ring set into the floor that looked like it might be some sorry excuse for a toilet. In the corner across from the bed, there was a small drain in the floor. Glancing up, Bobby could see tiny holes in the ceiling. There were a couple of buttons set into the wall in front of it. All of the walls and the floor were made of a strange grey material that gave a little with each step.

His inspection of the strange room ended when John and Peter began stripping the stranger. "What the hell are you doing?" He demanded.

John rolled his eyes, but ignored the other boy. Instead he ran his fingers through the mess of dark hair while Peter checked his mouth.

"We have to check for weapons," Peter said absently. Heat burned Bobby's cheeks when John moved down to check between the kid's legs. He turned his back on the whole crazy operation, choosing to focus on the room instead. He poked one of the walls, watching the strange rubbery stuff dimple under the pressure. Digging his nail into it, he was surprised when it didn't tear. Instead, his nail slipped off, leaving the wall undamaged.

When the shuffling sounds behind him finally stopped, Bobby turned and saw that they'd dressed the stranger in what looked like scrubs.

"Come on. Let's get the fuck out of here," John said before standing. Looking down at the unconscious boy, he glared, unable to keep his gaze from tracing the developing black line on the kid's throat.

"Better luck next time," he muttered under his breath as he hauled off and kicked the kid in the ribs.

"John!" Bobby shouted.

"What? He deserved it."

Peter didn't say anything, and Bobby realized that the older teen wanted to do the same thing. "Come on, let's go." Bobby said, worried that they would really hurt the teen, and he wouldn't be able to stop it if they both went after him.

"Fine," John said, casting a last contemptuous look over his shoulder at Bobby before strutting out of the weird room.

"So…what is that place?"

"Leave it alone Bobby. I've already told you, it's none of your god damned business," John growled.

"Considering the fact that I just helped lock someone up in there, I'd say that makes it my business," Bobby snapped back.

Peter sighed. " _Someone_ ," he gave John a knowing look, "named it the King of Hearts Suite."

"Shut up, or we'll see just how much heat your tin can ass can take." They all heard the deadly seriousness behind the threat, and Bobby decided not to push it. John was volatile at the best of times, and something about this place seemed to rub his roommate the wrong way.

Letting the matter drop for now, Bobby said, "Come on, let's go check on Siryn."


	23. Impossible Choices

"I have always found that mercy bears richer fruits than strict justice." - Abraham Lincoln

* * *

Storm drifted on a bed of soft clouds. They cradled her in gentle arms of mist. Brilliant shafts of light flitted around her, piercing her fluffy blanket and tickling her skin with spots of heat. Even though a distant part of her mind whispered that clouds should be cold, it felt like she was drifting in a sea of blood warm water, surrounded by her element.  _Is this Heaven?_  The thought sat on the surface of her mind like a lily pad, not making an impression, just there.

Something tickled along the side of her throat. Her hand twitched when she tried to brush the strange sensation away, but didn't complete the action. Even though she could feel her body, it was a distant thing, almost inconsequential. Ignoring the tickle, she focused on the clouds, wanting to enjoy the way they curled around her nude form.

The tickle became a burn. It felt like someone had drawn a line of fire on her neck. She tried to scream, but all that came out was a hoarse croak. Against her will, the clouds broke up, dropping her back down into herself.

_Beep, beep, beep_ , the repetitive sound drifted into her awareness, and helped ground her.  _The medical ward_ , she thought before forcing her eyes to open. Her throat still burned, the ache growing in time with her heart beat.

The first thing she saw made her lips twitch into a small smile. Jean's head was pillowed on her lower stomach, one arm flung over her hips. The red head was in a chair next to her bed, but still managed to use her as a cushion. Shifting her right hand, she felt her fingers twined in the other woman's inescapable grip.  _What happened?_  She wondered as she studied Jean's sleeping face, noting the dark circles beneath her eyes, her unusually pale skin, and the dry tear tracks marking her cheeks.

Closing her eyes, Storm tried to think back, only to wince when the pain in her neck gave a sharp throb. She reached up with her free hand, and froze when her fingers brushed over the thick bandage circling her neck. Memories crashed into her like a blast from Cyclops's eyes. IX hanging lifeless in his cell, trying to save him, the bite of something sharp in her throat, and then blood.

So much blood.

She shuddered, and then wondered why she was still alive. From what they'd learned of IX, he should have killed her while he had the chance. Storm was glad he hadn't, but couldn't for the life of her figure out why she'd been spared.  _Not out of the goodness of his heart, I'm sure._

Movement next to her drew Storm's gaze, and made her wince when stitches pulled against tender flesh as she tried to turn her head.

"None of that," Hank said. His large clawed hand rested gently on her forehead, keeping her from turning more. "Those stitches are going to be tender for a few days yet, so try not to turn your head too much."

"What happened?" Storm rasped.

Hank gave her a sad smile. "It appears our caged bird made his bid for freedom. Quite clever of him really. He learns quick, that one. When he realized we could knock him out at any time, he came up with a plan that made knocking him out useless, and had the added benefit of forcing one of us to go to him." Storm frowned up at him, and couldn't stop the faint blush of irritation at having fallen for his trap.

"Once he was free of his cage, he ran into Scott." Storm's eyes widened in fear. "Not to worry, it seems IX wasn't in much of a killing mood, though he did leave our friend with a souvenir to remember him by." Now her face darkened in irritation, silently demanding he get on with it instead of dragging it out. Hank held up his blue hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. He gave him a serious cut on the side, but nothing I couldn't handle. After putting Scott down, he made it out into the yard. Unfortunately he happened upon young Siryn, who promptly flipped out when she saw him covered in blood and screamed. He managed to stab her in the chest, doing some grave damage to her left lung before he was subdued by Peter."

"What…" her voice cracked, and Hank turned to grab a glass of water off the small bedside table. He brought the straw up to her lips for a drink. The water flowed down her throat like cool silk, easing the rasping dryness. "Where did he get the weapon from?" She asked.

Hank snorted. "Of all the innovations I've seen in my time, I've never known a man to make a knife out of a toothbrush." Storm gaped at him.

"A toothbrush? I was almost killed by a toothbrush?" Her voice rose with indignation on the last word as her eyes spit fire at the absurdity of her almost murder. Of all the ways to die, by toothbrush hadn't made it anywhere near the list. Pain twisted her face when her neck gave another sharp pulse in protest to her outburst, and Jean stirred against her stomach. Without thought, she carded her fingers through Jean's hair, coaxing her back down into sleep.

"Oh, right. Time for your next dose of pain killers," Hank gave her a cheerful wink before injecting a dose of medication into her IV drip. "Everyone is stable, and IX won't be pulling another stunt like that one. Xavier put him in The King of Heart's Suite. Frankly, we should have put him there from the start. Then again, who would have guessed the lengths he would go to for a chance to escape?"

Hank's words began to break apart, transforming into fluffy clouds. Storm blinked, wondering what he'd given her, but already too dazed to ask. As the pain in her neck melted away, Storm drifted off on a cloud bank of pain medication.

* * *

The sharp throb of pain helped IX claw his way up out of the hole unconsciousness had buried him in. It throbbed viciously in the side of his face, and when he tried to open his mouth, agony screamed inside his head. Ignoring the pain, IX forced his eyes open to study his new cage.

His physical pain was eclipsed by mental anguish at what he saw. The room held zero potential for escape. Reaching down, IX pulled at the edge of his shirt and observed the tiny rip with dismay. Beneath him, he could feel the blanket was made of a similar material. The cloth was a hybrid of paper and cotton. Strong enough not to rip while he moved, but not nearly strong enough to be of use for anything else.

The pain in his face was distantly echoed in his ribs when he stood, but he didn't care. It took less than five minutes to explore every inch of the wretched room, and to learn how entirely trapped he was. The walls were made up of a soft yet indestructible material, same with the floor. The pallet making up his bed was nothing more than a thicker rectangle of the stuff. He had a single papery blanket and one extra set of clothing. The shower was button operated and did not have a shower head. There was no sink, and the toilet was a waterless hole ringed by a higher ridge of soft material.

IX ground his teeth together, ignoring the splintery pain in his jaw as he stood stiffly in the center of the cage.  _No escape,_ the thought echoed through his mind like a tidal wave as the pressure of his situation crashed over him, driving him to his knees. It took every scrap of his self-control not to scream while his mind was crushed in the vice of his conditioning.

Wrapping his arms around his middle, IX bowed his head and fought a silent battle to hold his mind together for as long as possible. He knew he was breaking, but refused to shatter without a fight.

_My life belongs to my wielder, I cannot break here. I will not._

Still, the unbearable pressure grew, and IX felt his mind begin to buckle under the strain. Darkness ate the world, slashing into him with midnight claws as they drug him down into the abyss.

* * *

"He's unconscious."

"Bring him to the medical ward."

"Are you sure that's wise?"

"We have no choice my friend. Not anymore."

Growling under his breath, Hank entered the small cell and felt the fur along his neck rise. If it were up to him, he'd leave the kid here to rot. He bent down and grabbed IX around the waste before tossing him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. Again, he was shocked by the youth's light weight. So much destruction contained in such a tiny package. "They should have named you C4 instead of 9," he growled at the limp body.

Not happy with the thought of letting the little hell cat back into his domain, Hank forced himself to take his burden to the Professor.  _If he so much as twitches wrong, I'm going to rip his head off_ , he decided.

After Storm woke up for the second time, Hank had given her the go ahead to return to her rooms. Jean had gone with to make sure the white haired woman had everything she'd need. The memory made his lips twitch, especially the exasperated look on Storm's face. He knew that she'd only put up with the telepath's mother hening for so long before she lost it.  _Ah well, she'll still have Scott to badger, and he's too much of a love struck fool to tell her to go stuff it._  He wasn't pleased that Siryn was still in the medical wing, still recovering from her surgery. They couldn't move her yet, and he didn't want IX anywhere near her.

"Are you sure we should do this here?" He demanded as he all but threw IX down onto empty bed.

Xavier didn't say anything over the rough handling of their captive. Instead he sighed and rubbed at his temple. "Yes. He'll need to be awake for me to delve as deeply into his mind as I have to."

"What are you planning?" Hank demanded, his sharp blue eyes locking on Xavier's tired ones.

"I'm going to do what I must. His mind is on the verge of collapse. If I cannot find a way to stabilize him and remove the compulsion, then he'll become a vegetable. If this doesn't work…" Again he sighed. The sound held the weight of the world in it, and Hank bit the inside of his cheek. But he couldn't keep silent, not this time.

"Would that really be such a bad thing?"

Xavier's eyes narrowed. "What IX did is inexcusable, but I can't sit back and listen to another person's mind literally tear itself to pieces. I'm not that strong." Hank flinched at the words.

Not meeting the bald man's eyes, Hank began to strap IX down to the bed with padded cuffs that they'd installed for this purpose. It made him uncomfortable to have another mutant tied down in his lab, and he couldn't help feeling like some sort of mad scientist.  _This is so wrong._  Why did doing the right thing feel so wrong sometimes?  _It's death, madness, or Xavier, of those three choices, I'd pick Xavier every time._

Once IX had been strapped down tight enough to keep a snake in place, Hank injected him with the cure to the sedative.

* * *

The darkness became less oppressive, and a familiar scent tickled his nose. It was the whiff of antiseptic that clung to all medical labs. Keeping his breathing steady, IX twitched. His slight painted a picture in his mind, and IX wondered if he'd misjudged them after all.

Padded cuffs bound him at ankle and wrists to the bed. More straps crossed over his forehead, chest, stomach, thighs, and calves, ensuring total immobility.

_Escape, complete the mission, escape, ESCAPE!_ Rational thought was splintered by the impossible commands. Clenching his teeth, IX thrashed violently against the bonds holding him to the table to no avail.

"Release me," the words were a distorted snarl, hissed between his teeth. IX didn't feel the light touch on his temples.

_You must relax._

The three simple words fell into the maelstrom of his thoughts like delicate snowflakes. Instead of being torn to shreds by the chaos around them, they grew and became a new compulsion greater than the one destroying his mind.

Numbness settled around IX's distraught mind like a shot of Novocaine to the brain. IX's eyes snapped open, and locked on the sharp blue eyes hovering above his face. Against his will, his body relaxed into the bed as all fight drained out of him.

"You are the other telepath," IX said, the words dead of emotion.

"I am. We haven't been formally introduced. I am Charles Xavier, and the head of this establishment."

"I see."  _What are you going to do to me?_  He thought, unwilling to ask the question out loud. Xavier's jaw tightened when he saw the memories attached to that question. So man mutants he'd help strap to tables just like this one, and their often gruesome ends.

Fighting the rage he felt at the inhumanity of what was done to those innocents, and the part IX played in their destruction, Charles gave him a faint smile. "I'm going to save you."

IX's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"Because everyone deserves a chance at salvation." IX snorted at the absurd declaration.

Before IX could ask another question, Xavier focused. Part of his attention continued to act as a buffer between IX and the overwhelming need to complete his mission, while the rest dove into the mutant's thoughts.

IX's breath hissed as he sucked in a sharp breath. Memories began to play out in the back of his mind, and he knew the telepath was crawling in his thoughts, rifling through them like a deck of cards. Even knowing what was happening, he couldn't feel it while his powers were blocked, nor could he defend against it. "Get out of my mind."

_No._

Xavier flicked through IX's thoughts, first wanting answers. Suddenly, a crystal clear image flooded IX's mind of a young woman bound to a lab table, her face was sweat soaked, and a scream tore itself from her throat as the doctor injected her with something. He narrowed his eyes, anger washed through him like the tide coming in, but he refused to act on it.  _Clever_ , he thought. Even though IX was no longer able to tear his mind down and force him into memories, he was deliberately throwing memories at Xavier that were designed to infuriate and distract him.  _But not clever enough_.

He took control of the thoughts, wresting them back in the direction he wanted them to go. It was similar to breaking an unruly horse, his thoughts became the bit he used to force IX to yield. Still he tried to buck the control.

IX closed his eyes in a vain attempt to sever the connection when he felt Xavier's mind bite deeper into his own. As with his confinement, he fought with grim determination, refusing to submit even when the battle was impossible to win.

_That won't help you._ The thought slithered into his head like a serpent, its scales dragging memories to the surface of his mind. He felt the telepath slowly pick apart his thought process on the escape, and could almost taste the man's reluctant admiration.

_I see_ , Xavier thought, echoing IX's previous words. The assassin was more clever than he'd given him credit for, and more observant. Even with the limited interactions between him and the X-Men, he'd judged them accurately and formulated a plan that nearly bore fruit. IX hadn't forgotten the telepath even though he could no longer feel mental intrusions, and he'd used his growing madness as a shield to hide deeper plots. Xavier had been fooled by the surface breakdown simply because he couldn't see how anyone could function when their mind was unraveling. More importantly, he now understood why IX hadn't killed when given the opportunity.  _Very clever indeed._ It was a simple twist on the land mine philosophy. Land mines weren't designed to kill. They were designed to maim, to create victims who would then need to be tended to.

If IX had killed Storm and Scott, there would be nothing standing between him and the instant vengeance of the rest of the mutants in the institute. Instead he'd created an injury serious enough to hold up both himself and Hank, following it by disabling another adult fighter without killing him, thus creating more injured that had to be tended to. His patience had come close to an end when confronted by Siryn, and he would have killed her if Peter hadn't interfered, but before that the plan had unfolded perfectly. The final piece of the puzzle was as elegant as the rest. He wanted to cause enough damage to hold them up, but not so much that they would instantly seek revenge and go after him.

It disturbed the Professor how well IX had pegged him.  _I wouldn't have gone after him. Not until all the wounded had been tended too, and by then he would have made it back to his handlers._ Again, IX's mind tried to twist him off into a different direction, but he tightened his grip, ignoring the lance of pain that shot through the smaller mutant's mind. He couldn't afford gentleness now.

Forcing himself deeper into IX's memories, he followed their trek across the country while they hunted Remy. He sensed IX's reluctance to kill, and his absolute resolve to do as ordered. That gave him a bit of hope. It showed that IX wasn't a complete sociopath.  _If he can form even small connections with other people, perhaps there's something here to salvage after all._

Xavier was stunned at the amount of damage IX could take, and understood better how he'd been able to keep from falling into madness sooner. With mental fingers, he sifted through the string of battles he'd fought with Remy. Then, reluctantly, he explored IX's life with Stryker and everything it entailed. His stomach rebelled against the atrocities committed in the facility, but he refused to break the connection to get sick. Any hope he might have felt at the faint connection IX had with Remy died as he watched those horrors play out.

The cunning he'd applied while dealing with the X-Men had been turned on his own kind when it came to their destruction. While IX didn't feel pleasure in killing, it didn't bother him either. In truth, the small assassin felt nothing for his victims, positive or negative. That frightening level of indifference made his skin crawl.  _He would have returned with the rest of his team and would have had no qualms in capturing or killing everyone here._ Digging through the memories, he saw IX and the X-Team perform similar operations, though none of the enclaves had been as large as Xavier's.

IX killed without question or remorse.

After an unbearable amount of time, Xavier made it to the end of IX and X's time as Stryker's hounds. It felt like he'd waded naked through a swamp of filth. So much blood. He'd long lost count of the number of lives lost to IX's relentless skill.

_Now, let's see where you came from._  Originally, he'd believed that IX and X were Stryker's creations, but as he mined the memories, he learned that wasn't the case. They were as much a leash on the military man as they were on the hostage mutants.

Pain lanced through his temples, making Xavier jerk away from IX as the passive mutant struck. While he'd been exploring the Stryker memories, IX had gone quiet. Xavier thought that meant the small man had finally given up. He was wrong. Memories crashed into his mind, every agonizing experience IX could recall in full vivid detail. He could almost feel the whip ripping his own back apart, bones shattered, knives tore through flesh, and he burned.

Cursing, Xavier broke the connection. So much pain all at once caught him off guard.

IX choked back a cry of agony as the mental connection was abruptly severed. With the telepath out of his head, the mental protections the man offered collapsed as well. The compulsion to complete the mission lashed through his raw mind like a whip made of liquid flame. It flayed him alive, burning through his thoughts and leaving him trembling on the verge of mental shutdown.

Xavier jerked forward again when he saw IX's pupils blow wide. Blood flowed down the bound mutant's cheeks from his bitten bottom lip, and his breath accelerated to the point where hyperventilation became a threat. Before IX's mind crumbled, Xavier reestablished control.

_Be Calm._ Numbness spread over IX's wounded mind like a healing balm.

_Protect…Your…Wielder…_

IX tried to focus, but exhaustion pulled at his mind like the soft shackles that held him to the bed. The need to keep the telepath from his Wielder's memories thrummed in time with his heartbeat, but it was a distant call that couldn't pierce the artificial calm forced on him. There had been too much mental trauma over the past few days, and his reserves had finally run dry. Shock flitted along the edge of his consciousness, teasing him with the promise of rest.

Bracing himself for another blast of remembered pain if IX wasn't done rebelling, Xavier sank back down into the sea of memories. IX failed to attack again, but he wasn't foolish enough to let his guard down. It wasn't the pain that worried him, though it hadn't been pleasant, it was IX. The teen's mind felt fragile around him, and he thought one more blow like the last would destroy it.  _No, I won't let that happen._

Then he found the face of true evil. He studied the elderly man, watched silently as IX offered the man his life for a perceived failure, saw the way X had been caged and bound. The man's name was never spoken within IX's hearing, and Xavier found himself stunned at the depth of IX connection to the nameless man. He looked at the stranger as though he were the very center of his world. It wasn't love, not even close, but it was something greater than obsession.

Xavier knew instinctively that IX would do anything the man said, no matter the cost to himself or anyone else.  _If he told him to burn down the world, he'd do it._  That level of absolute power made Xavier's soul ache.

_How did this man gain such control over another living person?_ It was beyond horrifying. Gritting his teeth, Xavier forced himself to go deeper still. He had to understand what was done to the mutant if he had any chance to undue it.

Another ray of hope flashed through the next cluster of memories. He observed how IX found small ways to twist his orders to spare the Native American. While the assassin had never flat out refused an order, he managed to skate around the edges of a couple during that time.

_4285-8284910583-210982905729-8492_

All thought came to a screaming halt for Xavier as he observed the instant change in IX's mind when those numbers were whispered into his head. He recognized the voice as IX's master. _Impossible._ It couldn't be that easy, that horrible. Could it?

Xavier dug deeper still. He watched the multiple massacres. The tiny town of Second Chance that didn't get a Third. The Matron and her doomed creations of mingled human flesh and weaponry. And finally, the very scientists who'd created him.

Ice flowed through Xavier's veins. He finally understood what he'd so blithely held captive in his school. If IX had managed to escape, his orders might not have been to capture, but to annihilate. In his mind's eye, it wasn't a small cluster of rough buildings IX crept through but the bedrooms in the Manor. How easily the assassin could have ended their lives without waking a single soul. Then his home would have gone up in poisoned flames, burning their remains to fine ash.

Licking his parchment dry lips, Xavier marshaled his strength and pushed forward. How was such an atrocity created? As a silent observer, he watched IX and X train together, and how the tiny male inevitably always lost. He saw their first battle, and the failed battles of the convicts IX so easily terminated.

Then he reached the cancerous heart of the matter. He kept his distance from the deadly training, instead focusing on the brutal mental conditioning that tied IX's very will to a number. Xavier witnessed the brutal mental stripping that formed the cruel foundation of a mind that had once been human, but was now a living weapon with untold destructive potential.

Xavier's hands shook while he drifted back up to the surface of IX's mind. The options were as clear as they were devastating. He could let go, allow the assassin's mind to destroy itself. Or…

Or.

That single word hung in his mind like an ill omen. Just thinking about what came after made his soul feel black with self-loathing. Could he do what had to be done? Could he truly take up this sword and master him?  _Perhaps, in da right hand, he can be turned from sword ta shield, eh?_  Remy's words returned to him, and tasted like bitter ash on his tongue. How could he even consider taking absolute control over another human being? Because it was that, or kill him. An equally impossible choice.

_Please God, let this be the right choice._

Xavier's breath rattled in his throat like a death gasp as he drew in air. "4285." Instantly, IX's mind went silent. Hauntingly calm and empty, the mind waited for him to finish. To take control. Clenching his fists, Xavier said "8284910583-210982905729-8492."

A low sob escaped him after the last number fell from his lips. He felt IX's mind twist, the very foundation of his being wrenched out of place only to resettle around him. Now he was at the center of this deadly creature's universe, and his word became law. It felt like rape, no worse. There was no word for what he'd just done.

_Hear me IX, all previous orders given are no longer valid. Is that understood?_

"Yes, sir." The dead voice filled Xavier's mind, and it felt like a collar snapping around his neck. Trembling, he pulled out of the assassin's mind, and distantly felt satisfied that it didn't fall back into chaos. Instead he was again reminded of Remy. IX's mind was like a cold, still pool, perfectly calm and waiting for him to dip a finger into it to create a ripple of action.

Swallowing back bile, Xavier nodded. "Good. Rest now." Empty green eyes slid shut at the command, and that was one insult too many for his stomach to handle.

"Trash can," he managed to choke out, holding on long enough for Hank to shove the bucket into his hands. Acid burned up his throat, followed by what felt like everything he'd ever eaten. Even when there was nothing left to come up, his stomach continued to grind. Every part of him felt unclean, and he even though he knew it wouldn't help, he needed to take a scalding hot bath. Nothing would undo what he'd done.

"Charles? What happened?" Hank's hesitant voice drew him out of his miserable thoughts.

A muscle jumped in Xavier's jaw, and it was a strain to force his mouth open. He didn't want to admit what he'd done, as if speaking it out loud would make it irrevocable. "Mr. Lebeau was correct. At heart, IX is a weapon," he swallowed. "One I've taken control of," he admitted in shamed whisper.

Xavier didn't have to look up to see the look of horror on Hank's face. The silence grew heavy around them before Hank spoke. The words dropped into the darkness like falling porcelain dolls to shatter on the floor. "We should have let him die."

Thumbing the control on his chair, Xavier turned his back on Hank and headed for the door. He couldn't defend his actions, not when he'd felt IX's mind lock on him, accepting him as the new anchor to his existence. "Please return IX to his cell."

Not yet willing to trust Xavier's control, Hank drugged IX again before removing the straps holding him to the table. Even then, he tensed, ready for the assassin to rear up and attack. Instead, the teen remained limp. Reaching out, Hank rested the palm of his hand against IX's slender throat. His claws were dark against the pale skin, and his lips pealed back to reveal sharp fangs as he squeezed. The skin dimpled under the pressure. How easy it would be to close his hand and tear that bit of flesh free. Minutes crawled by as he stood, still as a gargoyle, holding the life of another in the palm of his hand.  _How many lives have you crushed?_  He wondered, knowing he could ask Xavier if he ever wanted to know, and also knowing he never would. Bad enough that he knew about the tiny town that no longer existed.

Bad enough. Everything with IX came down to levels of awful, from the distasteful to mind bendingly horrific. "I should kill you," he whispered, willing his hand to close. The soft pulse whispered against the sensitive pad of his thumb, and its steady beat felt like an insult to every victim whose hearts had been forever silenced. Killing him was the right thing to do.

The only thing to do. So why couldn't he do it? A pained laugh that wanted to be a sob escaped his lips. Who was he to condemn Charles's choice when he could do no better? "What pathetic fools we are. I hope we don't regret this idiotic act of mercy." Releasing IX's fragile neck, he scooped the youth up and again tossed him haphazardly over his shoulder. Even though he wasn't willing to kill IX, that didn't mean he had to be kind.

* * *

Logan glared up at the white plaster of his ceiling as if the material had spent the last hour and a half talking shit about his mother. Not that he remembered his mother, but that wasn't the point. The headache he was beginning to think of as a permanent fixture in his skull continued to throb behind his eyes. It didn't pulse in time with his heartbeat, nope, it ebbed and flowed with X's pissed off mood.

Ever since IX had been dragged back into the school bloody and unconscious, the animal locked in the back of his mind howled his fury. At this point, Logan would have gladly sacrificed his healing ability for a bottle of aspirin strong enough to kill the pounding headache. He just wanted to sleep, but that wasn't happening any time soon if the past hour was any indication.

"Fuck it," he growled, pulling himself out of bed. The kiddies should all be asleep. If they weren't? So what. It wasn't like any of them could hurt him, and as long as IX was out of the picture, he wouldn't hurt them either. So everything was fine. That and he couldn't stand the thought of spending another second hidden away in this room. Bad enough he had a monster locked inside his head, he wasn't going to spend the rest of his life in a cage too.

"I'm going out for a walk Chuck," he said sarcastically to the empty room. Someone sighed in the back of his mind, and Logan fought back a grin at the exasperated sound.  _Fine, try not to get into trouble, won't you?_ The smile wilted a bit around the edges at the exhausted thought. The Professor sounded like death run over twice, and he almost asked if the man was alright before he let it go. He was an adult, and hardly needed Logan to hold his and. If he needed that sort of thing, Logan was certain there were plenty of bleeding hearts willing to sit and listen to his problems.

Some of the aching tension bled out of Logan's shoulders when he stepped out of the elevator onto the main floor of the Manson. Even though it was a bit too stuffy for him, it was a thousand times better than the underground. While he couldn't recall where he and IX once lived, he had a feeling it wasn't much different from Xavier's secret lair.

Walking silently through the dark first floor, he noticed all the random little signs of the children who called this place home. Notes were crumpled and forgotten along the base boards, a backpack left hanging on the back of a chair, a random sock tucked behind a plant, and the mingled scents of countless adolescents.

He made it to the front door without running into, or being attacked by anyone. It was a pleasant change of pace. The pounding headache eased with the first caress of wind across his face. Tilting his head back, Logan drew a deep breath and held it, savoring the small taste of freedom. X seemed to settle a bit in his cage, and Logan wondered if part of the creature's problem was simply feeling trapped inside.

Outside was better.  _And outside with IX is better still_ , snarling, Logan squashed the thought before it could take root. The distant pines called to him, and for a brief instant, he saw them draped in snow. Shaking his head, he looked again and found them darkly green in the moonlight. The air on his skin was warm and rich with the beginning of summer, not fanged with winter. Unease bushed over him like stepping through a spider's web, but he refused to acknowledge it.  _Doesn't matter, not like I wouldn't have seen a winter forest before_ , he thought. X rumbled in the back of his mind and he swore the noise held a drop of amusement.

Forcing his mind away from his aggravatingly blank memory, Logan reached behind him to shut the door. The handle was pulled out of his grip when the door popped back open. "Where do you think you're…oh," the red head he'd rescued from IX's clutches stared at him with wide startled eyes. A faint blush painted her cheeks and she offered him a shaky smile. "Sorry, I thought you were a student trying to sneak out after curfew."

Logan's nostrils flared, taking in the heady scent of feminine arousal. It twined around him like a playful Siamese, tantalizing his senses. It wasn't nearly as intoxicating as IX's scent, but Logan's body still reacted to it the same way a lone wolf would respond to the scent of a bitch in heat. Not someone to mate with for life, but for a season of pups? Perhaps. If nothing else, she might be able to help him forget his fixation on a certain young man who had no business fanaticizing over.

He studied her wide green eyes. The shade was wrong, so were the emotions swirling inside them, but still. The color was another point in her favor. A roguish smile curled his lips, and his body hardened further when her blush deepened. "I, um, never had a chance to thank you."

"No problem," Logan held a hand out to her, the grin grew when he heard her heartbeat speed up as her pupils dilated. More pheromones flooded the small space between them. Instead of taking his hand, she pulled back.

A frown touched her smooth lips, contradicting all the other signals her body gave. "No. I'm sorry. I need to go check on the children." With that, she turned and fled, slamming the door in his face. A low rumbling laugh escaped him, and Logan expected to hear her shoot the lock home. Suddenly, he felt like the big bad wolf, and couldn't help but laugh again. Perhaps things wouldn't be as dull around here as he thought they would be.

* * *

Jean leaned her back against the door and fought back the mortified blush staining her cheeks.  _What are you thinking?_ Well that was obvious, wasn't it? She hadn't been thinking. If she'd been single and ran across Logan in a bar there was no question in her mind that she would have gone home with him. What a terrifying thought. She was not a woman who gave into feelings of the flesh. Whenever a question came up of which to follow, the head or the heart, she'd choose her brain every time. But Goddess above, he tripped her trigger bad. Something about the man hit all the right physical buttons and made her want to fling herself at him like a cat in heat.

Just thinking it filled her with a strange mix of pleasure and shame. She'd never had instant chemistry with someone before, and it was a little overwhelming. Scott filled her mind, and the scale dipped all the way over into shame. How could she even think about something like that when she had such a wonderful man already? Rubbing her eyes, she promised herself that no matter what, she wouldn't give in to her base impulses. Her relationship with Scott was worth far more to her than a tumble in the hay with a bad boy.

Logan was the sort of man for a night of wicked entertainment, but Scott was the man she wanted to marry and build a family with.  _Too bad those two worlds are almost always mutually exclusive_ , she thought wistfully before heading upstairs to make her rounds.

* * *

_Sir, what are your orders?_

Xavier groaned into his pillow and seriously considered ignoring the thought.  _How can he possibly know what time it is?_ In the past three weeks, IX had reached out to him via thoughts three times a day. At 6 in the morning, 12 in the afternoon, and 6 in the evening without fail. During the week, it wasn't so bad since he woke up early anyway, but couldn't the assassin take the weekends off? He could tell IX to stop, but he cringed away from the thought of giving him commands. Even the one he regularly gave left a bitter taste on his tongue as if he'd bitten into an aspirin.

_Remain in your cell._

_Yes, sir._

Three times a day. Every day. For the past three weeks. Intellectually, he knew that it was a vast improvement over what the situation had been, but still, he was reaching the end of his patience. While IX was a threat, it was reasonable to keep him locked up. However, the threat had been completely neutralized. Was it fair to keep him imprisoned now that he no longer sought to escape? Should he remain locked up as punishment for the harm he'd caused?

It was a problem he'd been fighting with since taking control of IX. Every day he monitored the mutant's thought and they remained calm. Calm and waiting. That was the problem slowly driving Xavier crazy. Even though IX never said it, not even in his thoughts, he sensed the assassin waiting for Xavier to give him a purpose. Without that, IX was trapped in a limbo of waiting. It was why he continued reaching out, requesting orders.

Xavier hated it, but he couldn't continue denying the truth. When he'd taken control of IX, he thought that would be the end of it. That he'd be able to keep IX locked away, and not have to worry about it anymore. He'd foolishly assumed that if he didn't give IX orders that the assassin would begin to take control of his own life back, and wouldn't need Xavier's hand to guide him.

_IX be needin' a hand ta 'old him. Be it for violence or protection, he'll always need a guidin' hand._  Again Remy's words came back to haunt him. Xavier was beginning to think Remy was some sort of mad prophet who'd stumbled upon them, left his twin gifts of random human weapons, and then left again after giving his ridiculously accurate insights. He hadn't wanted to take up the sword that was IX, but tucking him away in the back of a closet wouldn't solve the problem.

Maybe there wasn't a solution to be found, but he had to try. By taking control, he became responsible for the assassin. It was his duty to do what he could for IX. Closing his eyes, he thought over his plan and cringed. Xavier knew it was the best choice, but he wasn't looking forward to sharing it with his staff.  _I'll wait until after they've all had their coffee. Maybe I can talk Hank into spiking it with something that will calm their nerves before the meeting._ It was a pleasant thought, but then he'd have to explain why he wanted to drug the X-Men and Hank was one of the ones who was going to freak out, so that was a no go.

* * *

"No." The word wasn't shouted, but it was solid, like running face first into a brick wall. There was no level of compromise in the single syllable. Jean's green eyes blazed with all the emotion she hadn't shoved into her negation. Her hands clenched on her upper arms so hard she knew she'd have bracelets of bruises there later. Scott reached out and rested his hand against one of hers.

"Jean."

"No Charles. IX is dangerous, or have you forgotten what he did less than a month ago?" This time her voice wavered, raising near the end to a shout.

"I haven't forgotten."

"Then why would you even consider doing something so absurd? Are you trying to get us killed?" The water glasses on the conference table began to tremble with her fury.

"Jean," Scott warned. Scowling, she closed her eyes and focused on controlling her power. With a final merry tinkle, the glasses fell silent and still.

She wasn't the only one scowling. Expressions ranged from pained confusion to downright fury.  _Well, this is going swimmingly_ , Xavier thought, and wished he could fast forward time. Holding back an exasperated sigh, Charles continued. "No. I have no intention of allowing anyone to die at IX's hands."

"You can't guarantee that!" Jean shouted, her rage a thin mask for the terror she felt. The last time the demon had escaped, he'd nearly taken two of the most important people in her life away. And the Professor was willing to overlook that? No. Absolutely not going to happen.

"I can." Charles hadn't confided in anyone else about what happened, and he didn't relish sharing it now, but there was no choice. "The training IX underwent after he was captured by the scientists was…extensive. He has no freewill of his own, and is reliant on a handler to control his actions. I was able to transfer the position of handler to myself. He will not act against my orders, no more than he was able to act against the orders of his first handler." The word handler vexed him, but was still better than wielder. IX had been dehumanized enough, and at least a handler deals with living beings and not weapons. He'd chalk it up as a step in the right direction.

"I don't believe you," Jean whispered.

Xavier frowned. "You may take a look into his mind if you wish to examine it yourself." She paled so fast he thought she might faint.

Scott shot him a glare for even suggesting it. "That was uncalled for." Closing his eyes, Xavier gave a single nod, accepting the rebuke.

"A test then. I've given him a single order since taking control, and that's for him to remain in his cell. Let's open the door. If he goes out, then we'll know he can disobey. If he remains in, then we'll give my idea a shot," Xavier offered.

"No, we can't trust him. He's already attacked one of the students," it was Scott's turn to jump on the band wagon.

"One of the conditions will be that he cannot harm the students or staff."

"I still don't like it. His power is unlike anything we've seen before," Hank added.

"Would you be satisfied if he continued to wear the restraining collar?" Charles said, not thinking it was necessary, but if it allowed the rest of the staff to feel comfortable in the little assassin's presence, then it was worth it.

A tiny bit of tension went out of Jean's shoulders, and though she hated it, her solid no started to waiver slightly. Without access to his powers, Jean thought she could take him out of it came to that.

"Also, do you really want to spend the rest of his life staring at him?" Xavier's eyes lit with wary amusement. Now that IX wasn't losing his mind, he was dreadfully boring to watch. Sleep, eat breakfast, exercise, rest, eat lunch, exercise, meditate, eat supper, shower, sleep, repeat. IX was a creature of habit it seemed.

Jean pouted, and Storm couldn't help but laugh at her friend. The red head was a leading voice in how much time they wasted watching IX, even though she refused to let him go unwatched either. It was a rather bizarre conflict between paranoid terror and mind numbing boredom. "Traitor," Jean hissed at Storm, but she couldn't keep the small smile off her face either.

"In the past, IX committed heinous crimes, but he is also a victim. While it is easy for us to forget that in light of his behavior, it doesn't change the fact that he is as deserving of our help and support as Logan, Alice, Adelaide, Pietro, or any of the other students we've taken in over the years. He never asked to be turned into a weapon, and if not for a twist of fate, that could have been any one of us," Xavier's gaze found Scott's.

Shame burned Scott's cheeks. When he'd first come into his power, he'd been captured by one of Stryker's splinter groups. He'd only been held for a couple of days before Xavier and Erik found the compound and saved him and the others. That had been a stroke of pure luck. One of the girls captured the day before him had been approached by Xavier to attend his school. She'd been taken before her parents could decide, and because Xavier was familiar with her mind, he was able to locate her and the rest of the children who'd been taken.

_Would I have turned out like IX if Xavier hadn't found me?_  He didn't know, and that simple truth swayed him. He didn't like what IX had done to them, but he couldn't bring himself to condemn the youth to life in solitary confinement for something outside of his control. As long as Xavier could keep him in hand, then it was their duty to try and undo some of the damage.

"Fine. Let's do the test and see."

Jean shot him a dark look, but didn't oppose his decision. Although Xavier's argument was a bit of a low blow, there was enough truth in it that she couldn't let her fear overwhelm good sense.

Logan sat with his arms folded over his barrel like chest as he watched the back and forth. If it were up to him, he'd leave IX where he was. Then he wouldn't have to think about the short male, or his delicious scent. At least not outside of dreams. If he was forced to interact with IX on a regular basis, it would make it a hell of a lot more difficult to wallow in his self-imposed denial.

His eyes drifted over to Jean, and he grinned when Scott caught him looking. Even through the visor he could feel the glare trying to burn a hole into his forehead. Not long after his first actual meeting with Jean, Xavier introduced him to the students and told them not to bother him. Who he was tore through the school like wildfire, but one low growl was enough to make even the most foolhardy bucks back the fuck up. Flirting with Jean had the added bonus of pissing Cyclops off, and that made life all the more entertaining.

"Hank, if you would?" Xavier's voice put an end to his teasing.

With a few clicks, an image appeared imbedded in the table. It showed the outside of IX's cell. The screen split, and another view popped up showing the inside of the cell. IX sat on his pallet, eyes half closed and legs crossed. Another click let the door slide open. "Well, that looks cozy," Logan couldn't keep the low growl out of his throat. The room made a jail cell look well stocked.

"Shhh," Storm hissed back, her eyes riveted on the screen. At first, IX didn't appear to react. Then his head tilted toward the door and his eyes opened fully.

Heat throbbed in Logan's groin as he watched IX stand and stretch. He had to bite his tongue to keep from cursing out loud. He'd forgotten how beautiful his little mate was.  _Wait, mate? What the fuck. I don't have a mate._

IX padded silently to the open door and looked out at the corridor for a long moment. Everyone held their breath, waiting to see if he would obey or not. Without taking a single step outside of the room, and having satisfied himself that no one was coming, IX returned to his former position, completely ignoring the open doorway.

Jean could do nothing but stare in astonishment. Even staring at the screen, she couldn't believe he wasn't going to make a run for it.

"Professor?" She demanded, needing to know what IX was thinking, yet unwilling to reach out and find out for herself. There was nothing in the world that could entice her to enter that mind again, no matter how safe the Professor claimed it to be.

Xavier smiled, and her heart sank, already knowing that she wasn't going to be able to come up with an argument against freeing the menace.  _It's like vouching for a Sith lord to become a student,_  she thought childishly, and mentally stuck her tongue out at him. A low chuckle slipped past Xavier's guard, and the others gave him an irritated look. No one did inside jokes like a pair of telepaths.

"When the door opened, he reported it to me and asked for orders," he said the last word a bit sourly. "In fact, that's his favorite past time. He asks for orders three times a day. Frankly, I think he'd make an excellent waiter."

Logan snorted, trying to picture IX as a waiter and failing utterly.

Jean huffed. "Alright!" Much of the color faded from her face, but she force herself to continue. "We'll give this a trial run. He has to keep the power suppressant, and cannot under any circumstances harm a student or staff member, and he has to stay in the cell under lock down at night." She racked her brain, trying to think of any other stipulations that might make this insane task less dangerous. It still felt like they were enrolling a tiger though. Even a hand raised tiger could decide to turn and eat its owner one fine day. Jean just hoped that never happened. _I'm sure that's what all the people who own wild animals think too. Oh it'll never happen to me. Right. This is crazy._

"That's reasonable. I'll call him in."

"What? No! I mean…" Jean bit her tongue against the now instinctual terror she had of the teen. Her neck ached, and in her mind she could hear the echo of her bones snapping. But, if they were going to do this, she'd have to learn to tolerate being in the same room as him. There was no way she'd let herself have a panic attack in front of her students just because he was in her class. It was too bad they didn't have more teachers, then she could have pawned him off on someone else. That thought made her feel small, but she couldn't help it. IX may have left physical scars on Scott, Storm, and Siryn, but he'd left psychic scars on her that ran just as deep. "Call him," she forced the words out and it felt like cut her throat along the way.

Again IX's head tilted slightly, and Jean realized it was a small tell for when Xavier was in contact with him. Her heart skipped a beat when he stood and walked out the door without the slightest hesitation. She wasn't the only one who was anxious. Hank's fingers flew over the keys, and screens switched as he tracked the teen through the halls until he reached the conference room.

There was a short knock on the door, and the sound made Jean jump. For some reason she'd expected him to slam the door open and start blasting them all like some sort of cheap thriller movie.

Of course, that didn't happen. Instead he opened the door and had no weapons. Then again, he'd made a hell of a weapon out of a damned toothbrush, but he wasn't carrying anything with him this time. Every muscle in her body seemed to lock up when his eyes caught on hers for an instant before passing her by.

IX scanned the room, marking each individual in turn and cataloging the entrances and exits before his gaze settled heavily on Xavier.

He stood at attention, his face blank and eyes locked on Xavier's in silent demand.

"Please, take a seat," Xavier said, indicating the chair across from his. All around the table, people stiffened, not expecting an attack, but unable to hold back the instinctive reaction to a past threat. IX didn't even look at them. Instead, he sat and waited with infinite patience for Xavier to speak.

Logan's fists clenched under the table, his claws seemed to throb in their fleshy sheaths. X snarled in his mind, shoving at the door of his cage, wanting to go to his mate.  _Right, his mate. Fuck. Can this get any more Jerry Springer? And today: What to do when your inner psychopath has claimed a Mate._  He choked on a half hysterical laugh and everyone turned to stare at him. Everyone but IX, and for some reason that miffed the feral. Even though he'd refuse it to his dying breath, he wanted those emerald eyes to fall on him. To see him. To  _want_ him.

Gritting his teeth, he turned and gave Jean a playful smile. She gave a shaky smile back, and he felt the urge to growl. With IX in the same room, her green gaze was little more than a pale imitation. Her scent held nothing to IX's even though hers was shot through with pheromones and his was painfully clean of them. His scent was a siren's call, always trying to tempt him out into the water to drown.  _No_ , he thought and glared down at the table top. He would not lust after a child. Nope. Not going to do it.

The glare intensified until he could stand it no longer. Without a word, Logan stood up and walked stiffly out of the room without looking at anyone. Scott smirked after him. In the three weeks the feral had relentlessly pursued his woman, he'd developed a deep hatred of the man. Now, his gaze studied the slight weapon. Maybe things weren't always what they seemed.

IX fought the impulse to reach out and grab X as he passed.  _Not X any more._ That thought cut him unexpectedly, and he turned away from it, once more focusing on his new wielder. Finally, after weeks of inactivity, he'd been called. Something close to excitement teased the edges of his thoughts.

"Your mission," Xavier frowned, almost said 'if you choose to accept it' but managed to keep it back before he continued. He cleared his throat. "Your mission is to pose as a student."

IX blinked at him. "What is my objective?"

That almost tripped him up, but after thinking furiously he said, "Your objective is observation. I want you to craft a more realistic mask of humanity and the only way you'll learn to do that is through interaction and observation of your peers."

The small assassin shifted slightly in his chair. "Is there something you'd like to add?" He asked, wanting to keep the conversation verbal so everyone could follow along.

"I am not trained in long term infiltration missions." That was an understatement. His training was good enough to hold up under limited scrutiny, but it didn't take long for people to begin noticing his oddities. His training had centered almost exclusively on assassination. He was not suited well for undercover work. That had always been Wade's and Wraith's forte.

Xavier frowned as he followed IX's thoughts. "The students will know who you are. It is not an infiltration mission, but a training mission," he offered, hoping that would satisfy IX. His plan was simple. He would force IX to create a mask of humanity, and then have him wear it always. People who wear masks risk becoming the mask they wear, and in this case, Xavier was counting on it. In a way, he was treating IX like someone with a phobia. Immersion therapy.

The plan felt a little too devious for his liking, but it was the only form of rehabilitation he could come up with that had any sort of chance of working. If they were lucky, he might even make a few friends who could help humanize him. Xavier wasn't going to hold his breath, but anything was possible. For now, he wanted IX to focus on a mission where he didn't have to kill anyone.

"Here are the mission parameters. You are forbidden from harming any of the students or staff. If there is an outside attack on the Mansion, one of your duties is to protect the students to the best of your abilities. For now, we are going to keep your power locked down for an observation period. You will return to your cell for lock down every night at 9:30. Treat the staff with respect, and follow their directives. Do you have any questions?" Xavier went over it again in his mind to make sure he hadn't missed anything.

"No, sir."

"Very good. You'll begin classes starting Monday. This weekend, you'll complete the placement exams so we'll know where to put you. I want you to study hard and do your best. Is that understood?" Xavier added. He knew IX had no formal schooling, but didn't think it would be hard for him to catch up. Even without pain, he was a fast study.

"Yes, sir."

Xavier blinked, realizing that he'd forgotten an important part of the whole thing. IX had been their captive for so long that he'd forgotten that he hadn't been formally introduced to any of them. "My apologies, allow me to introduce you to my colleagues. To my left is Doctor Jean Grey. Next to her is Scott Summers also known as Cyclops, and to my right is Doctor Hank McCoy also known as Beast, and next to him is Ororo Munroe also known as Storm."

IX committed each name to memory and didn't bother offering his designation. They all knew it. "What's your name?" His eyes shifted to trace over Storm's face before dropping down to her throat and the thin line of scar tissue.

Seeing where he was looking, Storm clenched her hand into a fist to keep from bringing it up to hide the mark. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her cringe. Instead, she sat up straighter and stared him down.

IX noted her challenging gaze, and held it without difficulty. "IX."

She huffed. "What is your real name?"

"IX is the only designation I have."

Storm frowned, unhappy with the response. 9 wasn't a name at all, but it would have to do for the time being. "Very well," she straightened a small stack of work books before pushing them lightly over to IX. "Please work through these today and return them to me when you're finished."

IX accepted the books and returned his attention to Xavier. "You may return to your cell. Let me know when you've finished."

"Yes, sir." IX stood and took his leave without another word.

Jean tracked his progress with troubled eyes. When the door slid shut she slumped back into her chair. "This is a mistake."

Xavier shrugged. It might be, but it was the best they could make of a bad situation. "Tomorrow we'll set up a meeting with the students who were most affected by IX and let them know what's going to happen. Then we'll introduce IX to the rest of the students' tomorrow night at dinner." Xavier turned to Scott, "We'll need to get him settled. Move him out of the King of Heart's suite and into one of the other cells so that he'll have a little more room. We'll also need to add a desk for him to work at and get him some clothes."

"I'll take care of it," he said, not pleased with the assignment but understanding the Professor's motives. He didn't want to leave IX alone with the women either, even though they'd smack him a good one of they caught him thinking it. Jean was right, this was a horrible idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, please don't freak out about the whole Jean/Logan thing. I know that's going to drive a lot of people crazy, but it's necessary. Without it, there will never be IX/X/Logan goodness.


	24. A Dish Best Served Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so you're probably going to hate everyone in the next chapter. Just remember, they're only human.

"I'm telling you, it wasn't me," John whined.

Storm fought the urge to turn and smack the fire manipulator. "For the last time, none of you are in trouble. The Professor just wants to talk to you."

"Yeah sure, that's what they all say," he grumbled, throwing his hands up dramatically while Bobby rolled his eyes at his back. John cut his eyes to the side and caught Alice's pale blue gaze. "Just you wait. We'll get in there, and he'll give that 'I'm oh so disappointed in you for…' look. As if the couch didn't spontaneously combust all on its own. Really, it  _isn't_  always my fault!"

Alice hid a smile behind her hand at his antics. "Well, you do like to play with fire," she pointed out. John pouted at her.

"So you're in on it too, aren't you?" Reaching between them, he gave her platinum blond hair a playful tug. Alice jerked away from the grab, panic flashing in her wide eyes, but stumbled when her prosthetic leg turned wrong. Kitty leapt forward and wrapped her arms around the smaller girl's waist to steady her. Once Alice was back on her feet, Kitty shot John a scathing glare.

"What's wrong with you, huh?" She demanded.

John scowled. "Nothing, I was just having a little fun. Lighten up." Alice patted Kitty's arm, which was still looped protectively around her middle.

"It's alright Kitty, I'm fine," she said breathlessly before giving John a hesitant smile. "No harm done."

"If the lot of you are done horsing around, the Professor is ready to see you," Storm's voice stalled Kitty's lecture before it could begin. The playfulness drained out of the teens as they shuffled into the small conference room and sat down around the circular table. Even though he'd been joking around, all of them felt the same unease at having been singled out for some sort of talk. Being cut from the herd never ended well in their experience.

Siryn sat on Kitty's opposite side, and gave her roommate a pointed look. She pouted back. Whatever this was about, it wasn't her fault. Siryn rolled her eyes, clearly not believing her innocent little me act.

"Good afternoon. I'm sorry to take you away from your homework, but I thought it would be best to speak with all of you before I shared the news with the rest of the students," the Professor said. His warm eyes landed on John, and the boy couldn't help but cringe. "You've done nothing wrong," he said with a teasing smile before he grew serious.

"As you are all aware, Logan is not the only stranger we took in." For a second, they stared at him in confusion, not making the connection. Then the little bit of color Alice normally boasted drained from her face.

"IX," she gasped. Kitty's hand found hers, and gripped.

"Yes. After his failed attempt at escape, I knew things couldn't continue the way they were. I was able to override his previous handler's control. It is no longer necessary to keep him locked up. With that in mind, we've decided that the best course of action going forward is to integrate him into the school as a student," Xavier braced himself for their rage, and he wasn't disappointed.

Pietro was on his feet so fast that he seemed to blur as his chair crashed backwards with the force of the motion. "What the fuck?" Even shocked as they were by the news, Kitty gasped at the curse word, unable to believe anyone would say something like that to the Professor. Without giving him a chance to call him out on his language, Pietro continued. "I mean seriously? What about all the people he's killed? You can't just let him go! He should suffer for what he's done. Even keeping him locked up isn't enough." His face burned with fury, and even though he wasn't moving, his outline grew fuzzy as his emotions shook his frame.

Xavier gave him a long look before speaking. "Tell me Pietro, if I took control of your mind right now and forced you to kill every person in this room aside from myself, should you be held responsible for the murders?"

That threw the young mutant. He opened his mouth, shut it, glared, and tried again. "That's not the same thing. IX knew exactly what he was doing. He wasn't some sort of mindless fucking drone."

"That's where you're wrong. While he isn't in a trance, he is also incapable of going against a direct order. The training he underwent was exceptionally brutal, and when it comes to free will, IX has none," Xavier said.

Pietro continued to glare, but finally he dropped his furious gaze before he turned to right his chair. He sat hunched in on himself, desperately wanting to continue fighting, but knowing it was useless.  _I don't care whose orders IX was following, the bastard still did it. He's a fucking monster, and he should have been put down the second they caught him._

Tears burned down Siryn's cheeks, and she reached up to rub them away angrily. Her face was a brilliant shade of red from locking her jaws so tightly. She knew if she opened her mouth, she'd scream, and that wasn't going to happen. The scar on her chest throbbed, and more tears fell. Last time she'd screamed, it almost killed her. She jumped when a large arm was thrown over her shoulders. Before she could react, she was pulled against Peter's huge chest. "Don't worry. I won't let him hurt you," he whispered into her curly red hair.

Alice began to hyperventilate, and Kitty bounced up and gave the distraught girl a tight hug, not helping her breath in the slightest. "Everything will be fine, I promise. The Professor will make IX be good, and I'll always be here, and he'll have to go through me to get to you, and even if he does, I'll go right back through him to put myself between the two of you again." All of this was said on a single breath, and trying to decipher the insane chatter helped Alice calm down.

Then she busted into tears and clung to Kitty. "Promise you won't Kitty. Promise me you won't get in his way. Please," she sobbed. No one could stand against IX. It couldn't be done. Even though she hadn't been there long, Alice had seen enough. She'd seen IX take out mutants she would have sworn were unkillable, and he did it effortlessly. He was a connoisseur of murder.  _They caught him._  That thought broke through her panic. She didn't know how they'd done it, but they'd subdued IX. Not once, but twice. He'd caused a lot of damage in his escape attempt, but he hadn't been able to get away.  _Maybe they are strong enough to hold IX._ Hope settled into her heart like a broken winged dove.

"We'll face him together," Kitty whispered, refusing to promise not to defend her new friend. Alice gave a broken laugh at the thought. What could a cripple and a girl who could walk through walls do against a trained assassin?

Her voice still choked up from crying she whispered back, "I guess we'll die together then." Kitty stuck her tongue out at her.

"What are the odds that this doesn't end in blood and fire?" Adelaide asked in a deadpan voice, making everyone turn and look at her. "What? Someone had to say it. It's what you're all thinking anyway. Letting IX be a student is like hiding bombs around the school and hoping nobody sets them off by accident."

Pietro gave a sharp bark of laughter as he locked eyes with Charles. "Do whatever the fuck you want, but when that bastard kills us all, it'll be our blood on your hands."

Xavier gave a grim nod. "I won't allow that to happen. IX will not have access to his power, and he has been given explicit orders not to harm the students." John flicked open his lighter and lit it. He studied the flame for a long minute before nodding.

"If he gets out of hand again, I don't care what Colossus says, I'm lighting him up."

It struck the group how serious the matter was when Xavier didn't shoot John down.

* * *

The sound of children talking, laughing, and messing around was a soft background chatter as they made their way down a long hallway. With Xavier's mental guidance, they made it to their destination without running into anyone.

Scott opened the door to a storage room and shepherded IX into it. "Right, so the boxes along the left wall are boys' clothes ages 12 to 15. I figure they ought to fit you. Go through them and pick out a wardrobe. Let me know when you're finished," he said before pulling out his smartphone to check his e-mail.

Normally, when a student came to them with nothing but the clothes on their back, Jean would set up a day trip to the mall. A group of kids, usually Kitty among them, would tag along and help pick everything out. Many of the children who came to them were alone, and didn't have families to provide support. Xavier always took care of their needs, but kids had a tendency to grow, so all of the outgrown clothing that was still serviceable was kept here. They packed everything up twice a year to take to Salvation Army. All of the clothes were still perfectly fine, so Scott had no problem using them for IX.  _After all, it's bad enough he's going to be around the students, I'm not going to take him out in public and endanger innocent lives,_ he thought darkly as he watched IX out of the corner of his eye.

Having dealt with children for the past several years, he expected the teen to protest. Scott would have been relieved if he had. At least then IX would be exhibiting normal teenager behavior. Instead the short male gave him a nod of understanding and began to neatly sort through the boxes. That was another point of oddity. IX combed through each box before replacing things the way he found them. It was almost refreshing. Dealing with adolescents could be difficult, and teenage boys were the worst when it came to cleaning up after themselves. He shuddered, remembering his time as a student and being put on bathroom duty as punishment. That experience taught him that girls could be just as nasty as boys.

It took the better part of three hours for IX to finish, mostly because he seemed to shun anything brightly colored or with graphics, which excluded the bulk of the boys clothing. Finally, he settled on five pairs of jeans in dark blue and black. Three pairs of cargo pants, black, blue, and grey. A dozen solid color t-shirts. Four black turtle neck sweaters. A black jacket, and four pairs of flannel pajamas in red, forest green, black, and blue.

"I'm finished," IX didn't need to speak since Scott had been watching him the entire time. All of the boxes had been packed back up and were again in their proper place.

The pile of clothes was smaller than Scott expected. "Are you sure that's all you want?" He asked.

"It is all I need."

Something about the response bothered Scott, but he dismissed the feeling. If that was all IX wanted, fine. Who was he to judge? "Great. Hank should be finished with your new ce- er room. Come on." With that, he turned and led IX back down into the halls beneath the school.

The cell was a twin to the first one he'd been placed in, with the addition of a few odds and ends. A wooden desk was tucked into a corner with a bookshelf next to it. A cherry wood bureau had been placed against the wall across from his bed. IX studied the room while Scott watched him, waiting for a complaint that never came. "Well?" He finally asked.

"It is acceptable." Scott bristled a bit at the emotionless tone, but didn't say anything. He doubted any other teenager would label the space acceptable.

"Do you need anything else?" Scott asked, ready to wash his hands of the assassin and go reassure Jean that IX hadn't eaten him during this little adventure. Every few minutes he'd feel her mind reach out to brush against his, and while he loved her dearly, it was like being tapped on the shoulder over and over again.

"No."

Scott backed out of the room and thumbed the button to close the door behind him. It was better than being gutted, but IX was damned creepy even when he wasn't doing anything homicidal.  _I wonder how the children will take to him?_ The thought wasn't a comforting one.

It didn't take long for IX to put the clothes away. The room wasn't all that different from IX's old room with X at the base. Though, instead of a bookshelf, he'd had a weapons rack. When Scott asked if he needed anything else, X had flashed briefly though his mind.

After the compulsion to complete the mission was gone, everything settled for IX. Except when it came to sleep. Even after weeks without the feral, he still woke up several times a night seeking his warmth. For the first time in his memory, his shoulder didn't ache. The bites had healed over into silvery crescents. Fingering the faded marks, IX silently wished X was waiting in bed for him.

* * *

"May I please have your attention?" Xavier's voice easily cut through the dinner chatter. He'd waited until everyone had their food and was seated before leading IX into the room. Now every eye turned to them. IX stood silently at his side, green eyes scanning the crowd. He quickly picked out the familiar faces while making note of each face he didn't recognize. His expression remained perfectly blank under the students' intense scrutiny.

"I would like to introduce a new student. His name is IX. I'm sure you've all heard a bit about him. Please know that he is as much a victim as the other students we've recently taken in. I hope you will all be able to accept him in due time," Xavier said, knowing the young mutant was facing an uphill battle.

Silence shrouded the room for the space of eleven heart beats before the wave of noise crashed over them. Questions, furious accusations, and more created a cacophony of sound that drowned out individual voices. The Professor let it go on for a couple of minutes so they could get it out of their system before sending a single gong like note through their minds. The students winced at the loud mental noise and fell silent.

IX's fingers twitched slightly. Without his weapons, his power, and the order to do no harm, the assassin felt naked beneath their hostile stares. That wasn't the only problem. Before he'd been cut off from his power, IX hadn't realized how often that strange energy sent out tendrils of power into the area around him as it fed information back into his subconscious mind. Now he felt like he'd lost a sense as important as sight or hearing. The room felt two dimensional, and the people in it seemed like painted card board cutouts. He couldn't get a proper sense of them without his power reaching out to catalog them. IX refused to allow his discomfort show, instead he stood in a pool of artificial calm, taking their mingled rage with the same indifference a mountain had for the howling wind.

"I'm sure everyone has questions, but we can work through those during classes tomorrow. Please enjoy the rest of your meal." Turning his attention to IX, he said, "You may sit with us tonight."

IX followed Xavier to the teachers table and took the seat next to him. He'd never been the center of attention before, at least not in a room where he wasn't about to kill everything that breathed. It was odd to eat under so many hostile eyes. Their relentless gaze settled on him, but he ignored it entirely. A low rumble of angry voices started, but they kept their tones low enough that Xavier didn't have to quiet them again.

As he ate, IX thought over his mission. Now would be the best time to start, he decided, thinking over his masks. There was his normal expressionless face, which wouldn't do. Then there was the Smiling Innocent he usually employed when forced to deal with outsiders he wasn't going to kill immediately. Looking up at the students, he slid his smiling face on. For IX, it was akin to slipping on a porcelian mask, and went as deep. The disarming smile curved his lips, but did not touch his dead eyes.

In unison, the students who were still glaring at him growled their displeasure at his false smile. IX stared blankly at them, the odd smile locked in place while he considered the situation. The Smiling Innocent wasn't the proper response, but the only other mask he had was The Frightened Waif. That particular mask was even less useful. It was the one he used when he wanted to draw a mark to him. It was easy enough to slash his arm or leg, put on the frightened child mask, and draw his victim or target in close for the kill. He had no desire to draw any of the mutants closer to him. All he wanted was to be left alone so he could complete his observations.

_Perhaps my Wielder is correct,_ he thought as he continued eating. His human mask was too flimsy to handle any sort of long term infiltration mission. It didn't matter that he hadn't been created for such missions. All that mattered was what his Wielder needed him to do. If that meant learning a new discipline, he would do so.

Pietro stabbed his food so hard that his fork squealed off the bottom of the plate. Rage pounded the inside of his skull like a team of angry dwarves let loose in his head with pick axes. When that little bastard looked up and gave him a smug smile, he almost lost it.  _Not now, I can wait,_  he thought, gritting his teeth so hard he thought they might shatter. He forced his eyes down, if he kept looking at IX he was going to do something regrettable and get kicked out of the school. Besides, if he attacked the monster now, the teachers would stop him before he could do any real damage.

Using the edge of her fork, Kitty shaped her pile of mashed potatoes into the shape of a bunny. She nibbled her lower lip and tried to make sense of everything. Not wanting to, but unable to stop herself, she glanced back up at the head table at IX. He was smiling a creepy little smile that seemed impossibly wrong given the situation. Even if he wasn't facing a room full of people who would happily burn him at the stake, the smile was just…wrong. She couldn't put her finger on it, but it reminded her of those scary movies when creepy dolls come to life. His smile was a lot like those doll smiles. Shuddering, she hoped she didn't give herself nightmares. With a frown, she squished the bunny and started again, this time creating a pouncing dog. It wasn't right that the Professors were letting him go to school with them. Victim or not, he'd stabbed her roommate, and even if Siryn had one heck of a temper, she didn't deserve that. Kitty wouldn't forget what he'd done to her friend.

_Click, snap, click, snap, click, sn-_  Bobby reached out and put his hand on top of the flipping lighter. "Stop already! Seriously, he's not going to go all homicidal over dinner with the Professor sitting right next to him."

John jerked his hand free of Bobby's grip and glared, but didn't flick the lid open again. "Anything's possible," he muttered under his breath, his sharp blue eyes never leaving the slight figure. Bobby snorted, and held his hand up to block John's line of sight, earning a hard slap in retaliation.

"Ouch!" he yelped, pulling his hand back. "Man, I think you  _want_  him to start killing people with soup spoons." That got John's attention, he turned and stared at Bobby.

"Seriously? Soup spoons? That's the best you could come up with?" John said with a smirk.

Bobby flushed, "Hey, he did turn a tooth brush into a knife! Imagine what he could do with a soup spoon."

"Uh huh. And you say I'm the paranoid one. I'll let the Prof know you think we should hide all the spoons."

"Whatever," Bobby huffed, glaring down at his soup.

Logan sat at the end of the table, his whisky gaze one of many resting on the slender youth. Eating dinner with the brats wasn't at the top of his list of things to do, but when Xavier revealed his dastardly plot to let the assassin out of the box, he decided to come. Just in case things went pear shaped, of course. The question he refused to ask himself was who he really worried about. IX attacking the students, or them forming a lynch mob to take the green eyed man down. When the crowd first started shouting, every muscle in his body tensed in preparation for a fight. Then Chuck's mind gong had left his mental ears ringing and calmed the budding mob.

Ignoring the food, and the still glowering students, Logan watched IX calmly eat his meal as if he were sitting among friends. Nothing in that small form indicated discomfort at the situation, and Logan tried to squash the burst of pride he felt as he watched the children try to intimidate him with looks alone and fail miserably at it. It would take a lot more than a dark look to affect his…to affect IX. Growling at his mental slip, he stabbed his steak with a fork before cutting a chunk free. IX wasn't his anything.

IX focused on the meal and forced his eyes to remain forward, no matter how they wanted to drift to the side to study X. Having the feral in the room bothered him in a way all the staring students didn't. It unnerved him how similar yet different the man was. The way he moved, the fact that he could speak, and more than anything else, the way he kept away from IX, all bothered him more than he was willing to acknowledge.  _X is a tool, a weapon like me. Now he is a broken weapon without value. Broken weapons do not require handlers_ , he thought, forcefully dismissing the feral from his thoughts.

"Were you able to get settled into your new room?" Xavier asked.

"Yes, sir." The Professor waited, hoping the teen would elaborate on his answer, but not having much hope for it. Unlike most people, IX had no qualms with silence and wouldn't speak just to fill it. Getting information out of him was harder than pulling elephant's teeth.

"Do you have any questions before classes start?" He tried again.

"No, sir."

Taking a sip of ice water, Xavier pondered his newest student. While he was already intimate with IX's past, that didn't tell him what the future held. Under his previous Wielder, IX had been a frighteningly efficient killing machine. Because Xavier wanted something entirely different from the assassin, he had no way to judge how things might turn out. Would he be able to handle just being a student?

"Are you excited to start your lessons?"

"No, sir."

Xavier sighed, IX had a lot to learn about how conversations worked. He noticed that IX had finished eating and decided to put an end to the awkward discussion. "If you're finished, feel free to explore the house and grounds. Do you remember your orders?"

IX gave him a look that said more elegantly than words what he thought about Xavier's insinuation that he might forget an order. "Do not harm the students or staff. Be in my room for lockdown at 9:30. Defend the students from outside attack. Complete all school work to the best of my ability, and be respectful to and obey the staff."

"Very good," Xavier cringed mentally, imagining a dog doing a trick. It was going to take a while to get used to IX's level of obedience. After all his years teaching children, having one that listened and did as he was told was downright frightening. "Leave your dishes on the table. The students assigned to kitchen duty will clear them away after everyone's finished eating." The use of chores as punishment was a long standing tradition at the Institute and there were always enough kids willing to break the rules to make sure everything got done. On the days there weren't enough hands, having a few telekinetics always helped.

IX accepted the dismissal and stood. He eyed the various paths through the dining hall before choosing to go straight down the center. While it would be safer to go along one wall, using the wall to defend one side, it would send the wrong message. IX could not harm the students, but any show of weakness on his part would be foolish.

Taking a slow breath, he moved silently down the aisle made between two long tables. A foot shot out in a childish attempt to trip him, IX moved so smoothly out of the way that the act looked choreographed. It reminded him of Wade and all the stupid things the mouthy mutant had done over the years to try and get a rise out of him. No one else made an attempt under the stern gaze of the professors.

Logan watched him go and fought down the primal urge to get up and follow like some kind of guard dog. IX could handle himself, and even if he couldn't, it was no business of Logan's. He wasn't tethered to the youth, and no matter what the idiotic beast inside his head thought, the boy was  _not_  his mate. Growling under his breath, Logan stood and went in the opposite direction while X howled inside his head, demanding that they follow where IX led.  _Damn it, for a big bad monster, you're so fucking whipped,_ he silently thought at X.

* * *

It took a little over an hour for IX to explore all of the public areas of the mansion to his satisfaction. He learned the layout, access points, ambush points, and hiding places. So far, the students he'd encountered did little more than glare at him before fleeing like a bevy of quail scattered by a stalking bob cat. Whenever he'd encountered a single student, he received a look of pure terror before they ran. Like dogs, they were braver in packs. Though still not quite brave enough to attack without provocation.

Finished with the interior, at least the areas he had free access to, IX headed for the front door. He hadn't had a chance to properly scout the mansion before he attempted to take Remy out, now he planned to rectify that. By the end of the week, he'd have every inch of the grounds and the mansion memorized.

IX stopped at the top of the stairs leading down into the courtyard to savor the cool evening air. It was a little after seven, and he still had a few hours to begin mapping out the land around the mansion.

A booted foot crashed into IX's back, slamming him forward. The air was driven from his lungs, but IX didn't falter. Instead he turned the fall into a roll. Pain bit into his shoulder when it caught the edge of one of the cement stairs as he tumbled down them with the skill of a trained stunt man. If the blow had been centered a little better, he would have been able to take them without hurting himself.

When he hit the bottom, IX came up in a low predatory crouch. Pietro stood at the top of the stairs, glaring down at him, his face twisted in a mask of inhuman rage.  _Do no harm to the students._ IX straightened out of the crouch and waited.

"You killed my sister." The words were torn from Pietro's throat, each one reopening the soul wound.

IX stared up at him with graveyard eyes, so dead they would have looked at home in an angel statue poised over a lost child's resting place. "I have killed many people."

It took Pietro a second to understand what IX was implying. IX had taken so many lives that his sister was nothing more than another faceless corpse at his feet. Her death left no impression on the assassin. With a scream of raw fury, he threw himself down the stairs at IX. The raven-haired assassin couldn't follow Pietro's movements, not without his power to compensate.

He couldn't see the attack coming. Agony tore through him, the side of his head, his gut, his groin, ribs, ankle, back, sides. It was like being caught in a tornado made of fists and feet. All he could do was curl up into a defensive ball on the ground, his knees up to protect his internal organs, and his hands laced together to cover the back of his head in an attempt to keep the raging mutant from accidentally setting off the device and blowing his head off.

The pain grew with every blow, but it was the sheer number of strikes that hurt most. Pietro was not skilled when it came to causing harm, and half the blows were ineffective. IX bore the pain. He knew Pietro sought retribution, but didn't have what it took to kill. While he could hurt IX, and badly, he would not be able to kill him. Not that IX would be able to do anything if the other mutant was the killing type, but he might have considered contacting his Wielder in that case.

A blast of icy wind shot over him, sending the speed demon head over heels. "That is enough." Thunder rolled over head, making the words seem to echo with power. Pietro scrambled to his feet, his grey hair tousled around his head like the mane of an elderly lion.

"I-"

"No," Storm growled, another fork of lighting stalked from cloud to cloud. "I don't want to hear your excuses. The Professor is waiting in his office for you young man." He cringed against her fury and the way her eyes seemed to flash almost white. The first blast of wind had knocked his own rage down like a tornado pulverizing a barn, and now he felt two inches tall. IX hadn't moved, and the sight of blood on the small male made his stomach turn uneasily. Was he still alive? Pietro had wanted to hurt him for what he'd done to Wanda, maybe even kill him, but looking at the pitiful shape now he just felt sick. Sick of the pain, the hate, the desperation, sick of everything. Most of all, his own actions sickened him. IX hadn't fought back. That was wrong. The assassin shouldn't have laid down and taken it.  _Then again, he always did for his other keepers._

Giving IX one last look, one of mingled sorrow and hate, he trudged back up the stairs and into the mansion to face the Professor.

Storm's furious eyes tracked the dejected boy as he made his way back up the stairs and into the building before she forced herself to turn to IX. Instinct fought with intellect. Had he been anyone else, Storm would have gone to him immediately to help, but fear held her immobile. The thick scar at her throat thrummed in time with her heartbeat with remembered pain.  _What if he was faking again_ , the fear whispered in her mind. Every muscle in her body protested moving forward and giving him another chance to attack even though she knew he wouldn't harm her.

At an impasse with herself, Storm compromised. "Are you able to stand?" She couldn't make the words compassionate, instead they came out clipped with strain. IX uncurled from his defensive ball. His face was already swelling, one eye completely shut. Blood flowed from his nose, his split lip, and his forehead. Storm watched as he moved, each motion controlled as he tested his injuries. It took a couple of minutes, but he managed to stagger to his feet unaided, though he couldn't put much weight on his left leg.

"Well? Come on," she snapped. It took all her will to turn her back on the assassin and head for the door. The skin on her back crawled as if it were covered in bees as she waited for the attack. Instead, she heard the dull shuffle of his halting steps behind her. Without looking back, she marched into the building and led the way down to Hank's territory. It seemed IX was forever doomed to end up in the medical ward.

* * *

"Please, sit down."

Pietro's arms were folded over his chest, and his shoulders hunched as if against an invisible blow as he sank down onto the chair. Pain throbbed in his fists, and even his feet ached from the sheer number of times he'd kicked the assassin. He stared at the top of Xavier's desk, unable to bring himself to look at the man.

"While I understand your anger, that's no exc-"

Instantly rage overwhelmed the shame he'd felt at his actions. Pietro shot out of the chair and slammed his reddened fists against Xavier's desk. Leaning forward he hissed, "Understand? You _understand_  what I feel? Tell me, were you forced to watch your sister, the only family you had left, slaughtered like an animal before your eyes and not able to save her? She screamed for me to help her, did you know that? And that…that sick bastard slit her throat while she begged me to save her. He watched me as he did it, and his eyes were as empty as death. He didn't even care that he was killing someone. Don't you get it? He isn't someone who can be saved. Even if he was human once, he isn't human any more. He's a monster, and you're going to get people killed by letting him walk free as if he were human."

Xavier's spine stiffened as images were thrust into his head, screamed at him from Pietro's mind. He felt himself trapped in place, unable to escape. Saw IX come down the rows of cages and enter hers. Like Remy, the girl wore a restraining collar that would kill her instantly if she attempted to use her powers. Not that it mattered in the end. IX had taken her down with a brutal kick to the gut. Then he'd grabbed her hair, forcing her head back in a long arch before slashing her throat. Blood sprayed over the cement floor of the cage, painting it crimson and adding to other brown splotches, mementos of the previous occupants.

Stumbling back, Pietro sank into the chair and covered his face to hide his tears. "They never clean the blood. Even after she was gone, all I could do was stare at the stains. There was so much blood, and even after others died in her cage, I could always pick out which patches were hers." Xavier could barely hear the muffled words, but he didn't need to. He could see the images in Pietro's mind, and it sickened him.

"Everything that was done to you, your sister, and every mutant who ended up in that horrid place was tragic Pietro. I don't fault you for your rage, but I hope you won't allow the inhuman nature of the ones who held you captive strip you of your own humanity. IX is a convenient target for your pain, but even though he was the interment of your sister's destruction, he was not the true cause of it. IX was a tool, and nothing more. Revenge is a path that always ends in despair." Xavier's thoughts strayed to Erik, and how his once friend had never gotten over what was done to his family. That buried rage burned still, waiting to be unleashed on all of humanity.

"Even if you killed IX, it wouldn't change anything."

Pietro looked up, his eyes red from crying. "Killing him would keep him from killing anyone else," he sneered.

"Perhaps, but what would it do to you?" Xavier asked.

"What do you mean?" Pietro demanded, unable to see where Xavier was going.

"Killing is no easy task. Each death comes with a price, and you would never be satisfied with just one."

"That's crazy. I'm not going to turn into a murdering psycho just because I killed someone who needed to die."

Xavier's eyes narrowed. "No? I told you that IX was the tool. What about the ones who wielded him? What about the Doctor?"

Pietro growled, and rage almost blinded him when he remembered that foul creature. While he hadn't had much experience with the bastard, he'd abused his sister more than once. If he had his way, he'd show the Doctor what it felt like to become the experiment.

Sorrow flashed in Xavier's eyes. "Yes. Another death. But that wouldn't be enough either because he was also a tool. You would have to work your way up the chain, killing as you went, until you died or made it to the one who issued the orders. What then? It still wouldn't be enough. Instead, your hands would end up as red with blood as theirs, and you would become the monster you despise."

The words sank into him against his will, and again Pietro felt sick. He remembered IX's bloody face, and how small the kid looked, curled up on the ground like an abused child. If Storm hadn't stopped him, would he have beaten IX to death? Could he live with doing that to someone else? What about everyone else who'd hurt them? Could he kill them all?

Shame sank bitter claws into his chest, and Pietro's head dropped. No. Even though they deserved to die for what they'd done, he didn't think he had it in him to hunt them down. Part of him was disgusted by his own weakness, but the greater part felt relief. He didn't want to become like IX, not even to avenge his sister's memory.

"What happens now?" Pietro forced himself to ask, sure that he would be told to pack his things and go.

Xavier gave him a small smile. "Now? Well, you'll need to apologize to IX." Pietro glared, but didn't argue. "After that, I think a month of bathroom duty will serve as a reminder not to attack your fellow students."

Pietro's eyes widened in horror.

* * *

Hank glanced up from his computer when the door opened. Storm stood in the doorway, but didn't enter. He tilted his head at her, noting how her hair was frazzled from the wind, and recalling the sound of thunder earlier. That, coupled with her flashing eyes and scowling lips, made him want to sneak out the back way so he wouldn't have to handle whatever had the weather witch so out of sorts.

A few minutes later, he had his answer. IX limped in while Storm held the door open for him. It looked like the teen had been in a car accident. One arm hung lifelessly at his side, he was favoring his left leg, and his face looked like it had been used as a punching bag.

"I'm beginning to sense a theme here. At least you didn't leave a string of injured for me to deal with this time." Then he flashed Storm a look. "He didn't, did he?" Hank asked, not wanting multiple patients to begin pouring into the room after IX.

"No. Pietro chose to take justice into his own hands and beat IX up," Storm said sourly. In truth, she didn't blame him, and part of her was glad someone had given IX a little taste of his own medicine.

"Right. Well, I suppose I'll take it from here," Hank said, waving Storm off as he went to help IX.

He approached IX warily, as if he were a stray dog with a broken leg and not a thinking person. IX tracked him with the eye that wasn't swollen shut. "Alright, let's get you out of those clothes and see what we need to do to put you back together."

IX allowed the blue mutant to undress him, not reacting when the gentle movements made the pain flare up. Once he was undressed, Hank got him onto the exam table and began poking and prodding him.

Bruises were already starting to form an intricate patchwork over IX's pale skin. "Does this hurt?" He asked as he began exploring IX's right shoulder.

"Yes."

"This?"

"Yes."

"Hmm, not good," he muttered before moving on with his examination. When he was finished, he gave IX a long look. "Well, it looks like Pietro did a number on you. Most of the damage is superficial, a lot of bruising and some deep tissue damage. You've got a sprained ankle, but I'm worried about that shoulder. It looks like a torn rotator cuff. If the tear is complete, we'll need to do surgery to repair it."

"That won't be necessary," IX's bland voice made Hank cringe.  _Is this guy even human?_ He wondered, unable to detect the slightest hint of pain in the tone, even though he could smell IX's pain and knew the youth was suffering.

"It will be if you don't want to lose mobility in your arm."

IX gave him a long look. "No. The injury will be healed by morning. If I had access to my power, I could heal it now."

About to protest, Hank's jaw snapped shut. He remembered the brain injury that should have left IX a vegetable, and the way it healed overnight as if it never happened.

"Hm, well, I guess we can reassess you tomorrow. You'll remain here tonight so that I can keep an eye on you." The damage wasn't that bad, but Hank's scientific mind couldn't pass up the opportunity to watch and document the healing process.

IX stiffened. "I have to return to my room before 9:30." Hank frowned at IX, remembering the lock down order Xavier included in the boy's control guidelines.

"I know that you have a curfew, but I would like you to remain here tonight. Contact Xavier and let him know."

Licking a drop of blood from his swollen bottom lip, IX focused.

_Sir? Dr. McCoy requested I stay in the medical wing tonight. This conflicts with prior orders. Please advise._

Xavier's mind reached out to touch his, wanting to make sure he wasn't badly injured. Then it flicked out to Hank's, tasting his friend's curiosity. With a low mental chuckle, he returned to IX.  _You may break curfew if I, or another staff member, requires you to do so._

_Yes, sir._

"I will remain here tonight."

Hank grinned. "Perfect. I'm going to be observing the healing process and will need to wake you up once every two hours to check your progress. Is that alright?"

"Yes, sir."

Something almost like guilt tickled the back of Hank's mind, but his inner mad scientist stomped it down before it could reach the surface of his thoughts.

* * *

After Hank finished his final examination, IX was released from the hospital wing. There was a gleam in the doctor's eye that IX was wary of. He'd expected Dr. McCoy to keep him, inflict new wounds, and observe the healing process in relation to different types of damage. It wouldn't be the first time he'd been the subject of a medical man's scrutiny, and once he was free, he silently vowed to stay as far away from the blue furred male as possible.

All of the injuries inflicted by Pietro had healed overnight, much to Hank's surprise and delight.

On his way back to his cell to clean up and get ready for the day, he was stopped by the Professor and Pietro. IX eyed the speed mutant, studying his scowling features and dejected stance. With his Wielder there, he doubted Pietro would attack again, so he waited to see what they wanted.

"Go on," Xavier said when Pietro continued to glower at IX. He couldn't hide the surprise he must have felt seeing IX healed instead of black and blue.

With a huff he straightened up and said, "I'm sorry I beat you up."

IX's features didn't change from their normal blankness, but he looked from Pietro to the Professor and back again. The silence began to stretch like a piece of old bubble gum before Pietro growled. "Well?"

Not knowing what to do, IX forced his lips to curve into a smile. Instead of appeasing the grey-haired teen, that seemed to make his frown deepen. "Damn it, this is where you say 'I accept your apology."

Xavier sat perfectly still. It took all his considerable self-control to keep from bursting out laughing as he followed IX's confused thoughts. The poor assassin had no clue what was going on. In his short life, he'd never been on the receiving end of an apology, nor had he seen the ritual performed. He had to bite the inside of his cheek when IX dutifully replied.

"I accept your apology," he said in the same tone a tourist might use while being forced to engage in a quant custom that made no since to him.

Pietro huffed, irritated beyond belief by IX. "Are you kidding? Can't you at least pretend to mean it?" He demanded, furious all over again.

IX tilted his head, studying Pietro as if he was an interesting yet possibly venomous snake. "How?" He'd said what he'd been told to say, so what was the problem?

Raking his fingers through his wild gray hair, Pietro fought down the urge to punch IX again. Abruptly, he turned towards Xavier. "See? I told you. There's no way to fix this, he'll never be human."

Observing Pietro, IX forced his lips down into a poor approximation of a frown. It wasn't an expression he'd had a chance to practice yet, but he thought it might be closer to what Pietro wanted. He reviewed his memories of the language to better understand what was happening. "You apologized to me, which is an expression of regret for something one has done wrong. In turn, I accepted your apology so that we may return to a state of non-aggression." The fake frown slipped a little back into his normal expressionless features while he thought through the problem and made a new connection.

Pietro turned back to him, already shaking his head. "That's not the point. The point is-"

"I understand," IX interrupted, finally realizing what the problem was. "I apologize for terminating your sister's life."

Xavier winced at the emotionless words, unable to react in time to stop the inevitable. It was a train wreck, and he couldn't look away or put the brakes on in time.

A roar of fury tore from Pietro's throat as he slammed his fist into IX's face with enough force to slam him into the wall next to the door. "How dare you!" He screamed, his other fist bunched in IX's shirt, and he shoved him against the wall again. "Don't you dare apologize for what you did, you don't feel regret for murdering her, so don't lie."

IX let the mutant shake him, and waited for his fury to dissipate. Clearly, there was more to the business of apologizing than he suspected. The knowledge that he was already failing at his primary objective ate at him, but he knew it would take time to learn the intricacies of human interaction. Like all of his previous lessons, these would be corrected with pain.

"You are correct. I do not feel regret. I feel nothing."

Pietro shoved him one last time before letting him go. Turning, he glared at Xavier. "He feels nothing. Remember that when he shoves a knife in your back," he hissed before stalking down the hall.

The Professor didn't call him back. One experiment in apologizing was enough for the day. "Are you alright?" After the disaster of the last few minutes, it was all he could think to say.

"Yes, sir."

Xavier could already see the eye beginning to darken into a shiner, and he couldn't help but wonder how many black eyes IX would have to suffer through while he tried to find his place among them.

* * *

When he entered the dining hall sporting a fresh black eye, the students fell silent. IX ignored their stares as he got himself a tray with a bowl of oatmeal, a cup of orange juice, and a small apple. He found an empty spot near the end of the table, and instantly the people closest to him got up and moved, leaving him in an island of empty seats.

Someone passed behind him when he lifted his spoon and intense cold bit into his palm, making him drop it. The small blob of oatmeal shattered on his now frozen tray. Cruel laughter rang out around the room as he poked at the inedible food. Even the apple was unsalvageable, since it was stuck to the tray.

Nudging the tray away, IX stood and headed back towards the food. Colossus stepped into his path and stared down at the tiny assassin with cold eyes. "You already had your serving, better head to class. You don't want to be late your first day." His lips curled into a vicious smile, daring IX to protest.

Not interested in a second beating in so many days, IX turned his back on the much larger mutant and left the room.

* * *

**Note:**  The following scenes will be random snapshots over the next four months of IX's life as a student in Xavier's school.

* * *

Walking towards his next class, IX fought the impulse to attack when John and Bobby fell in step on either side of him. With a mocking grin, John said, "So how's our happy little psycho today? You look a little down, let's get your blood flowing." He shoved IX hard at Bobby, laughing, Bobby shoved him back. The two larger teens shoved him back and forth between them before John suddenly stopped, making Bobby shove IX hard into the wall.

Pain flared in his shoulder, but he ignored it and waited for the pair to lose interest. He'd become used to this sort of game, and they weren't the only ones who liked to take advantage of his small size.

* * *

"Did you get it?" Jubilee whispered, a wide grin curled her lips when Kitty handed over a book.

"Easy peezy," Kitty chirped, watching as Jubilee opened the book to the chapter they'd be using for the next class to rig the prank. Once she was finished, she added a tiny timed drop of power before carefully shutting the book again.

"Kay, go put it back before class, hurry!"

IX took the seat nearest the door before bending down to take out the book. He could feel Jean's eyes boring holes into the side of his head, but ignored it. Whenever he was in her class, she stared at him like he might launch himself at her at any second. Of all the teachers, she'd been the least forgiving of his past actions. Not that the others were much better, but he could feel the animosity emanating from her when she glared at him.

"Alright class, open your books to chapter four. We'll be using the ch-"

_**BANG** _

A cloud of pink and purple glitter exploded out of IX's book, coating the tiny assassin from head to toe in bellowing cloud of sparkles.

Jean scowled at him. "IX, you will stay after class to clean up this mess."

"Yes, Ma'am."

* * *

IX burrito went up in flames, and he had to douse the fire with his glass of milk, ruining the rest of the meal. His eyebrow twitched in mild irritation as his stomach rumbled.

* * *

A giggle he'd become quite familiar with sounded behind him, but IX didn't bother turning around. Kitty was a nimble little thief, and he wondered what she'd taken now, or what she might have left behind.

Darting into an empty classroom, Kitty grinned and held out the seven page report with a triumphant grin. "Got it!"

John grinned back as he flicked his lighter open.

ixixixixi

"Please turn in your assignments," Scott said, watching as the students shuffled past his desk.

IX dug through his backpack, but couldn't find his report.  _So that's what the little cat took._

"Don't you have your work IX?" Scott inquired when he failed to produce the paper.

"No, sir."

"Very well. You will clean the bathrooms for the next week."

"Yes, sir."

Kitty's jaw dropped in surprise. Usually bathroom duty was reserved as punishment for really getting into trouble, like fighting or trying to sneak into town without permission. She gave John a wide eyed look, and he grinned smugly back. Biting her lip, Kitty glanced shamefully at IX, but he looked as bored and indifferent as always, so she shrugged it off.

* * *

Her heart beat like a wild bird trapped within the cage of her ribs, and she thought she might pass out before she could do it.

Holding her breath so she wouldn't start hyperventilating, Siryn reached out and unzipped the top of IX's backpack while they were stopped in the hallway waiting for the group of giggling girls to break up so the traffic could start flowing again.

Before she could lose her nerve, she upended the full can of cherry coke into his bag. Giddy terror flowed through her as she turned and ran the other way.

IX slid his backpack off when he felt the sudden cold seep into the back of his shirt. At first, he thought Bobby had frozen it again, but then he found the spilled can of soda. The corner of his lip twitched down at the mess and the knowledge that yet another day's homework was ruined.

* * *

A small hand wrapped around his wrist and jerked him through the wall feet from the door to his next class. IX's body reacted on instinct, but he managed to abort the movement before his fist crashed into Kitty's startled face.

"Meep!" She squeaked, staring wide eyed at his fist an inch from her nose.

"Do not startle me. If you plan on grabbing me again, hold on to my wrist for a second so I know what you are doing and will not harm you by mistake."

Kitty's head jerked up and down in shaky agreement before she darted forward through the wall she'd just pulled him through.

IX walked back down the hall, having to take the long way back to class.

"You're late IX, detention this Sunday fertilizing the garden."

"Yes, Ma'am."

* * *

Sharp nails bit into his shoulders as Adelaide leaned against his back. IX had only managed to get two small bites of his lasagna before she spit, spraying acrid smelling droplets of venom lased saliva all over his tray.

"You sshould eat more, become big and sstrong like your pet. Oh, that'ss right, he'ss not your pet anymore, is he? Maybe I sshould bite you, like I did him?"

Her tongue flicked teasingly over his cheek as IX stilled. Heat throbbed behind his eyes at her words. "Ahhh, you don't like that, do you murderer? You don't like the thought of X being harmed."

IX didn't respond, couldn't. Anything he said would make things worse. His Wielder had declawed him, and he was not a man who gave idle threats. He could not force the girl to leave X in peace.  _It does not matter, she cannot harm him even if she wished to. Her venom is not strong enough to overcome his healing factor._

Adelaide pouted. She could taste his agitation, but he refused to rise to the bait. "Pitiful little IX, can't even protect yourself from a bunch of children. How the proud killer hass fallen." With a final sharp squeeze, she sauntered away.

IX gathered the tray up and threw the entire thing in the trash, not willing to risk the students coming into contact with her venom.

* * *

A sharp jolt of pain streaked up his leg from his right ankle. IX didn't move. Instead, keeping his face empty of reaction, he glanced down and spotted the two inch tall mutant standing on his shoe. One tiny hand was wrapped around the blood red sewing pin head as he thrust the makeshift sword into IX's flesh a second time. His foot twitched.

Sticking the needle sword into his belt, Flea scrambled up IX's pant leg before straddling his knee. In a flash he was up, tiny blade free once more, he drove it down into the meat of IX's thigh.

Before the tiny pest could react, IX's hand darted out and caught him. Pain, sharp as a spider bite, sank into his palm again and again. He'd been stabbed half a dozen times before he managed to pluck the needle out of Flea's grip. Once more, his hand closed around the squirming figure before he turned and held out his hand to Peter, seated behind him.

"I believe this belongs to you," IX whispered.

Peter stared hard at IX, his massive frame wire taunt in fear for his brainless little friend. It wouldn't take much for IX to squish him like his namesake. Taking a breath, he held his large hand out. IX released the tiny mutant so that he fell into the offered bowl of Peter's hand. To their combined shock. IX then handed the needle back to Flea, hilt first, and got the tip of his index finger stabbed for his efforts.

"IX no talking in class. Detention tonight cleaning the dining room," Scott's voice snapped IX around to face the front again even as he slid his bleeding finger out of sight.

"Yes, sir."

"Are you insane?" Peter hissed when Flea returned to his normal size. "He could have killed you."

Flea grinned his normal careless smile. "No way. Did you see me? I totally got him!" He chortled loud enough to make the teacher glance his direction, but instead of sharing detention with IX, Scott ignored the loud whispering coming from the odd duo.

* * *

IX sat down in his accustomed place at the table, and gave the thick slice of meatloaf on his plate a longing look. Hunger clawed relentlessly in his gut, but every meal seemed to end with his food being rendered inedible by one student or another.

He couldn't even sneak into the kitchens for something to eat during their breaks because the students stalked him relentlessly and made it clear that the kitchens were off-limits to him. Stealing himself, IX reached for his fork.

"FOOD FIGHT!" Pietro screamed before he vanished from his spot only to reappear next to IX. He snatched the tray up and dumped it over the dismayed assassin's head. The air was instantly filled with food, and about 90% of it was aimed at the small green-eyed teenager.

IX sat in grim silence as he was pelted from all sides by everything from spoonfuls of mashed potatoes, to meat loaf, and creamed corn, and even a few bowls of pudding.

It took the teachers fifteen long minutes to reestablish order, and by then, the entire room from floor to ceiling, was splattered with food.

Jean stood at the head of the room and gave them all a stern glare. Usually, the entire lot of them would have to clean up the mess, but something cold slid through her eyes as she looked at IX, entirely covered head to toe in food. "IX is scheduled to clean tonight, so that will be his task. The rest of you, get cleaned up and then go to your rooms. No one is permitted to roam around tonight." Vindictiveness flashed in her green eyes. She'd overheard some of the students whispering in the halls about their planned food fight in honor of IX's punishment during Scott's class, and she was willing to go along with it.

While the rest of the students shuffled out, she gave IX a bitter smile. "Since it is going to take several hours for you to clean this mess, you may stay out past your curfew to finish. Do not go to bed until it's done."

After she left, IX scraped a bit of meatloaf off his cheek and popped it into his mouth.

He didn't make it to bed until after three in the morning, but at least he didn't go to sleep hungry.

* * *

IX's predictability made it easier to torment him, John thought idly as he and Bobby took the pair of seats behind the desk closest to the door. Even though IX hadn't made it to class yet, they already knew which seat he'd take. It was the same in every class, even though he wasn't permitted to leave class early, he always took the one nearest the exit.

Seconds before the bell rang, IX made it through the door. His dark grey t-shirt was almost black, damp and wrinkled. It looked like he'd soaked it in the bathroom sink before trying to wring it dry. When he sat down, the unmistakable odor of rotten eggs wafted back at them, making Bobby gag. Suddenly, they both wished that the tiny assassin would have had time between classes to go down to his room to shower and change.

The lecture began as students close to IX tried to scoot as far away from him as they could. Jean scowled at them, but didn't send IX out of the room.  _The students were the ones who'd made the wretched boy smell so bad, so they can share in the stink for a while_ , she thought, irritated. Maybe that would make them plan out their pranks a little better.

As she turned to write on the board, John flicked his lighter open and snagged a tiny lick of fire. He shot Bobby a dark grin before the tiny bead of fire shot from his finger tip and landed on IX's back. A tendril of smoke wafted up from the burning cloth. The two teens held their breath, waiting for IX to react, but he didn't. Instead, he sat perfectly still, as if he wasn't burning.

Scowling, Bobby sent a tiny stream of ice to put out the fire. John scowled at him, annoyed that his fun had been ruined so soon, but then he noticed the little black dot of burned cloth and skin and he grinned again. Every time Jean turned to write on the board, John would start another fire, and Bobby would put it out.

They played connect the burning dots throughout the period. IX never turned or gave any indication he felt the agony of fire and ice that played over his back.

* * *

Hunger coiled in his gut like a living thing, and IX's ribs were beginning to show from the lack of food. It had taken over a week for him to find the right materials to make the sling, and it would take longer to master the new weapon. Mastery usually took years to accomplish, but hunger was almost as good a teacher as pain, and he was closer to his goal every day.

The pockets of his coat were heavy with small egg shaped stones that he'd found along the shore of the small lake on the eastern side of the property. A fluffy red tail flicked impertinently at him as the squirrel snatched up an acorn and studied him with glinting black button eyes.

Slipping a fresh stone into the pouch of the sling, IX began the careful rotation, waiting for the precise moment to release. The stone hissed through the air with the same deadly precision as a bullet, pulverizing the furry rodent's skull.

Cold satisfaction washed through IX's chest while he watched the body crumple. Sliding the loop off his finger, he wrapped the twin strings around the pouch before tucking the weapon into his pocket.

Memories of their time in the forest helped guide the paring knife he'd managed to swipe one of the few times he'd made it into the kitchen unnoticed. In minutes, he had the small corpse skinned, gutted and staked over a small camp fire.

It took all his self-control to wait until the flesh was cooked before he pulled it off the fire and tore into it like a half starved wolf. Once the squirrel was reduced to a pile of well gnawed bones, he put out the fire and buried the remains of his kill.

* * *

Rogue stared at the back of IX's head, a frown on her lips. In the past three months, she'd watched all the students and even the professors bully IX, but nothing they did to him seemed to phase the tiny serial killer.

He never fought back, or retaliated in any way, never cried, never begged them to stop, and never told on them. Then again, Rogue understood his reluctance. The adults obviously knew what was going on, but did nothing to stop it on their own, so why would they do anything if he told them? Hell, he'd probably end up in detention for it. A vindictive smirk brushed her lips. In IX's time as a student, she didn't think he'd had a single night without at least one detention.

But still, he wasn't bothered by any of it. Even when he got hurt for one of the more savage pranks, the damage was always gone the next day. He acted like they were nothing but flies buzzing around his ear, not even worth the effort of swatting away. It was maddening.

Then there was the matter of his power. He was a mutant after all, and he had to have a power. A lot of the students though it was healing, but Rogue wasn't so sure. Yes, he healed faster than normal, but nothing like Logan did. She'd heard all about Adelaide's bite, and how the damage hadn't lasted more than a minute.

No, the healing had to be a secondary trait. If it wasn't, Beast wouldn't have drilled that metal plate to the back of IX's head. He had to have some sort of active power, and all the students could do was speculate on what it might be because no one was willing to go up and ask.

Class ended, and IX was up and out of the room the second the bell rang. It was the final class on a Friday, and most of the students were headed out onto the grounds to enjoy the beautiful day. Rogue wrinkled her nose. Because she had to wear a layer of clothes all over her body, she wasn't a huge fan of hot weather. Many of them would be swimming in the lake, and she hated sitting on the shore and watching them play. The risk of accidentally draining someone was far too great for her to ever go swimming.

Instead, she headed up to her room to drop off her backpack. Then maybe she'd head to the library to get a head start on her homework. Once she'd put her bag away, keeping only a notebook for research and a pen, she headed to the library. As she expected, the halls were empty, no one had even invited her to come out and play with them. They'd learned a long time ago that she shunned nice weather. In the winter, when the ground was covered in snow and everyone wore thick layers of clothing, she'd go out and build snowmen, have snowball fights, and skate on the lake. Until then, she'd stay inside and pretend to like it.

Turning a corner, she found out that she wasn't as alone as she'd thought. IX was walking ahead of her, also headed towards the library. The pent up anger at always being left out of things, coupled with her previous thoughts on how nothing the other students did had any effect on IX boiled to the surface.

Without thinking about the consequences of her actions, Rogue slipped off her gloves and shoved them into her pocket as she ran to catch up. "IX wait," she called after him. He stopped, but didn't turn, simply waited for her to catch up. Taking a deep breath as excitement, fear, and guilt mingled in her chest, Rogue reached out to grab his hand. It was the first time she'd ever willingly used her power against someone else, and part of her relished the thought.

His hand was warm, and when their skin came into contact with each other, he turned his head to her. Brilliant green eyes, so much richer than any other she'd ever seen, studied her. She could almost see him waiting for the attack, having long learned that any time a student wanted his attention, it was to harm him in one form or another.

_And this time won't be any different_ , she thought, waiting for the rush – the influx of power, emotions, and thoughts. She waited for him to pour himself into her, and waited. Her eyes widened when nothing happened. Rouge could actually feel her power tugging at him. Every time before, it was like the other person's skin would fold away in her mind, and they would flow into her like a river. But IX was more like an oak tree. He was solid, and unmoved beneath her power.

Anger clouded her features. The first time she chose to use the cursed power, and it didn't freaking work. Of course it didn't. That's just the way the world worked. IX was the only person who really deserved to suffer her curse, and he was the only one immune to it.

Then her anger was washed away in a flood of awe. For the first time since her mutation became active, she was touching another person. She was touching IX, and he wasn't convulsing on the floor. Later, Rogue wouldn't be able to explain to herself why she acted, she'd chalk it up to temporary insanity.

"IX," she breathed, and pulled him against her. He was about two inches shorter than her, so she had to bend slightly to capture his lips. His startling eyes widened, but he didn't move. Rogue could almost read the confusion in those normally empty orbs. Her arms wrapped around him as she kissed him like he was the last man on the planet, willing him to kiss her back. But he didn't. He stood passively in her grip, letting her do as she wished, but not responding.

"Rogue?" Bobby's voice cut through her confused and desperate thoughts. Leaping away from IX as if he were on fire, she turned. He was standing in the doorway to one of the boy's bathrooms, heartbreak shining in his wide blue eyes.

"Bobby," she gasped, spun and ran. Bobby shot IX a venomous look that promised future pain before running after her.

Reaching up, IX wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He had no more understanding of why she'd kissed him than why X kissed him, but found he much preferred the feral's lips to hers. He dismissed the whole matter as incomprehensible, and headed for the library to spend the weekend doing make-up work to replace the homework other students had destroyed over the course of the week.

* * *

That night, when he sat down to eat, Kitty took the seat across from him. Mischief glinted in her wide eyes as she reached out and put a fingertip on his tray. Suppressing a sigh, IX reached out and tried to pick up his fork. His fingers passed through the metal.

Green eyes locked with dancing hazel. "May I eat?" IX asked. Unlike the rest of the students who'd simply destroyed his food, she was holding it hostage.

A small giggle escaped her. "Nope," she said as she shook her head, making her brown curls bounce around her heart shaped face.

Taking advantage of the fact that she had to say there to keep him from eating, IX asked, "Why are you doing this?"

The laughter melted out of Kitty's face, leaving her eyes hard. "Because you tried to kill one of my best friends."

IX could see the anger snapping in her eyes while she stared him down. His blank features shifted into a practiced frown. The expression looked a little off, but Kitty couldn't figure out why. Looking at IX when he was trying to be expressive was like looking at one of those 'what's wrong with this picture' photos where you know something isn't right, but it takes a while to pinpoint the issue.

The only student he'd harmed was the screaming girl. IX doubted Kitty was talking about one of the professors he'd injured. "She survived," he offered. If she knew his kill ratio, she would understand how lucky the female was to have escaped with nothing more than a scar.

Kitty jerked as if he'd slapped her. "Survived?" she hissed, "What the heck is wrong with you? The fact that she survived doesn't make it alright."

"She could be dead. Don't you prefer her alive?" IX asked, his bland tone grated on the girl so much she wanted to hurt him. Kitty was not a violent person by nature, but IX made her crazy.

"Yes!" Kitty cried. "I 'prefer' her alive." She took her hand off the tray long enough to make air quotes around the word prefer. In the second she let go, IX's hand darted out to snatch a dinner roll of the plate. Hissing like her namesake, she stood up, snatched the glass of lemonade off his tray and threw it in his face.

Cheers rank out around the room.

"You're an insensitive prick," Kitty growled before she stormed out of the room, leaving him dripping and mourning the now soggy roll.

* * *

After taking yet another shower, IX changed into clean clothes and headed out onto the grounds. Checking the area around the large oak tree next to the lake for traps, IX relaxed slightly when he found it clear. He'd claimed the spot for himself not long after becoming a student, and the others couldn't help but try and prank him here.

Disarming the traps, while tedious, at least helped hone his skills since he had no one to spar with. IX sat with his back against the rough bark and pulled out the assigned reading. He could have saved himself a lot of grief by doing most of his work in his cell, where the students couldn't follow, but pride forced him to remain out in the open. Even though he couldn't fight back, he refused to let them think him weak by hiding from their torment.

He made it through half a chapter before the sound of footsteps alerted him. IX watched Bobby approach, and couldn't classify the look on the teen's face. Even though he spent an inordinate amount of time trying to understand the emotions the children displayed, he was finding it impossible to understand them. While he could see the expressions on their faces, he couldn't ask them what feelings inspired such expressions. Right now, for example, he could read anger on Bobby's face, but that was only a small part of what the other male was feeling. IX could tell that much, but couldn't begin to guess what else might be going on.

Bobby stopped a few feet away and stared at him for a long time. Emotions flickered over his face too fast to decipher. IX forced his body to relax, so that he'd be able to move easily when the youth attacked. Even though he couldn't fight back, he'd learned how to move with a punch, letting the blow impact, but dulling it so it didn't cause as much damage. That way, the attacker felt like they got what they wanted, and IX didn't suffer as much for it.

Visibly gathering himself, Bobby said, "Can I sit down?"

Surprise flitted over IX's features for a second only to melt back into bland indifference. "Yes."

The ice mutant sat stiffly across from him, looking incredibly uncomfortable. "You…" Closing his eyes, Bobby rubbed his temples. "You can touch Rouge without dying." He finally managed to say.

IX remembered the odd pulling sensation when the girl touched him, but it hadn't harmed him like rumor said it did others. "Yes."

Silence filled the space between them while Bobby fought with what he wanted to say. "Look, you, I." A sigh exploded out of him. He ran his shaking fingers through his brown hair, tugging at the locks as if the pain might help center him.

"Would you date Rouge?" The words were forced from his throat around the blockage trying to strangle him.

For the second time, IX found himself shocked at the turn this encounter had taken. Dating was the absolute last thing on IX's mind. Whisky colored eyes flashed in his thoughts before he forced them away. Even if he wanted to date someone, the odds of anyone at this school wanting him was laughable. They'd rather see him beheaded than kiss him. The memory of Rogue's damp lips pressed hungrily against his gave lie to the thought. Perhaps there was one who would overlook his prior crimes in order to have someone who could touch her. But that's all it would be. He had no feelings for her, and she had even less for him. All she wanted was someone to sooth her skin hunger.

"No."

"Why not?" Bobby demanded, anger twisting his hansom features into a mask of hate.

"Because I have no feelings for her," IX answered indifferently.

"What does that matter? It's not like anyone else will take you. Just give her a chance." Fury mingled with desperation in his tone. All Bobby wanted was for Rogue to be happy, and if IX could make her happy, then he damned well better.

"No."

That single implacable word resounded between them. Its dead tone was unchangeable, impossible to alter, and Bobby knew it. The rage won. His hand balled into a fist and iced over. He threw himself forward, slamming his fist into IX's side.

IX tried to move with the blow, but the trunk of the tree thwarted the motion. His breath woofed out of his chest as two ribs broke under the force of Bobby's untamed fury. After delivering the devastating blow, he stood and kicked dirt in IX's face.

"You don't deserve her. She'd never want a monster like you anyway."

"I am not a monster," IX said, but the way he said it wasn't so much a denial as it was clarification. He wasn't bothered by being called a monster, he simply found the term inaccurate. "I am a weapon."

Bobby stood over him and gave a jagged laugh. "What does that even mean? You aren't a gun, dumb ass. You're a person. People aren't weapons. They can be soldiers, or assassins, or fucking monsters, but they aren't inanimate objects."

"I was created to be a weapon, to be wielded by another. It is my duty to obey, not to be an individual."

A nasty smile curled Bobby's lips. "And what about now? You belong to the Professor, don't you? He's never going to use you. You're worthless to him. What happens to a weapon in the hands of a man who refuses to use it?"

IX's eyes narrowed, the words were sharper than the pain in his chest because nothing burned hotter than the truth. "I will become whatever he needs me to be."

"You're pathetic, you know that? Fucking worthless," Bobby turned his back on IX and walked away from the obsolete weapon.

Forcing the hurt Bobby's words inspired in him away, IX straightened up. Physical pain shortened his breath when the bones in his chest shifted, and he embraced the familiar feeling. He checked the time, and saw he had an hour and a half before curfew. Reaching out, he hissed as he grabbed his book to finish the chapter.


	25. I See You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes on the last chapter:
> 
> Anyone who's ever experienced bullying will tell you that if it isn't dealt with by an authority figure, it almost always escalates. Now, add mutant powers to the mix. Things get out of hand, and we have a situation where the students are playing a dark game of one upmanship. I know it seems like they're being super awful to IX, and seem unrepentant. One of the major reasons for this is IX's own behavior. If a group of teens found a snake, and threw rocks at it until it died, they wouldn't feel bad about it. The snake might have been poisonous. In their minds, they believe what they did was right. If someone asked them if they would do the same thing to a kitten, they would be horrified. IX is a lot like the snake. He doesn't cry, and he never begs them to stop. Because of this, he never triggers their own guilt or empathy. His lack of response makes their own actions seem less serious in their minds. Add to that the lack of adult intervention, and you get the last chapter.
> 
> As for the teachers, you have to remember he nearly killed two of them and attempted to drive another insane. At best, they see him as a threat to themselves and the children. At worst, they see him as a monster who should have been destroyed. None of them see him as a student, a child, an innocent, or a victim.
> 
> This chapter will touch on why Xavier and Logan haven't reacted yet, but we'll get more into the resolution of their feelings in the next chapter. With that, on with the story.

_~~ Wizarding World – Diagon Alley ~~_

Cornelius Fudge settled his bowler's hat on his head and gave himself a once over in the mirror. The image reflected there gave him a roguish smile. "Looking splendid as always, Minister." Giving his tie a final adjustment, the Minister of Magic disapperated. He appeared a second later standing behind the podium that had been set up in front of Gringotts Bank.

The waiting crowd clapped politely at his arrival. Fudge fought the urge to straighten his tie again before he gave the gathered witches and wizards his best smile.

"As the Minister of Magic, it is my duty to inform the magical public that the matter of the escaped convict known as Sirius Black has been resolved. After a lengthy six month investigation by Aurors with the aid of Dementors, we have concluded that Black never made it to shore after his escape. He perished in the sea."

"Did you find his body?" A man's voice shouted from the depths of the crowd. Color darkened Fudge's cheeks at the interruption.

"No. His body hasn't been located. We believe it's been consumed by sea life. However, we've searched extensively for the convict and found no sign of him. There have been no sightings and the Dementors have not located a trace of the man on shore. A Death Eater the likes of Black would have made his presence known by now." Fudge concluded, puffing his chest out.

"How'd he escape?" Came another shout.

"At this time, I'm not at liberty to divulge that information. Rest assured, the matter has been resolved and the weakness in Azkaban corrected."

"Humph, that means they don't know their tea kettle from their caldron." Augusta Longbottom's voice cawed over the other voices easily, much like the cry of a vulture. Fudge looked like he'd bitten into a lemon, but wisely didn't dispute the elderly matron. Even now, her tongue was known to draw blood when riled. It didn't help that she had the ear of most of high society. No one liked the old bat, but none could deny her political pull either. The last thing he needed was for her to begin a whisper campaign against him.

Clearing his throat, he continued. "Right, well as of today we will be returning the Dementors to Azkaban. The case of Sirius Black is now closed. Thank you." A cheer went up at the declaration, more for the fact that the foul beasts would no longer be roaming about than belief in Black's demise. After all, how could a bit of water defeat You-Know-Who's right hand man? Still, they were willing to go along with it. The story had grown stale in the months since the escape without any new information and the public had lost interest.

* * *

His feet moved silently over the rough wooden planks that made up the cabin's floor. No squeak betrayed him as he passed down the hall. Tiny drops of blood trailed behind him, marking the macabre path he took. Slowly, he pushed open the white painted door. Tiny bunnies had been stenciled on the wood along with a word.  _Maddie._

_No, dear God, please don't make me do this._ The thought screamed through his mind, but didn't seem to touch his body. Each breath came smooth and slow as his heart throbbed indifferently in his narrow chest. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop himself from walking into the tiny nursery. All around him he could see the love of parents who would never see another dawn. The walls, like the door were painted white, but each wall also had a hand painted mural of different forest scenes. A doe and her fawn drank from a tranquil pond, a trio of rabbits frolicked with a squirrel, a fox mother and her kits nosed around a flowering bush.

His eyes swept past this coldly, ignoring the objects in the room in favor of the small white crib. Again his mind cried out, tears burned in his thoughts but didn't blind his sight. Without as sound, he stalked forward. Blood, the life blood of sweet little Maddie's family, dripped off the tip of his dagger, desecrating the tiny pink bear cuddled next to the sleeping baby.

"No!" He screamed as the knife plunged down into the tiny chest, stilling the delicate heart and ending a life before it had a chance to begin.

Tears slid down his wrinkled cheeks and his heart seemed to leap in his chest as Charles woke from the nightmare. His skin crawled, every inch felt stained in the blood of innocents. Gritting his teeth, he forced his sweat soaked body to relax back into the mattress. He knew from experience that clawing at his flesh wouldn't help.

IX had been alive for a few short years, but in that time he'd accumulated enough horrific memories to ensure Xavier never had another good night's sleep again. He took a long deep breath and pushed the memories aside, letting them fade back into obscurity. When he was awake, the things he'd seen and experienced in IX's mind could be guarded against. But when he slept, they haunted him.

After wiping away the sweat and tears his mind turned once more to his charge, as it often did when he woke in the middle of the night. Xavier reached out and touched IX's thoughts. Instead of finding a sleeping mind, he found the raven-haired youth awake and working on an assignment for his class. A glance at the clock showed it to be a little after one in the morning, and he knew that particular assignment was due today. He clucked his tongue, knowing that IX had finished the work two days ago.

The last four months hadn't gone as well as Xavier would have liked. He'd known the students would resist the assassins integration into their midst, but he hadn't anticipated the level of hostility they showed. Though, he had to admit, some of their pranks were quite imaginative, he still found himself disappointed in their cruelty.

Again his mind reached out to feather through IX's. It was like sinking into a pool of calm, and that made him cringe. It was the same feeling he had in his nightmares. That endless tranquility filled the assassin no matter what the situation was. He felt the same way when he killed as he did when the students tormented him. Then again, even as harsh as they treated IX, it was nothing compared to what he'd come from.

The amount of pain and suffering IX received at the hands of the students over the last four months wasn't a match for a single hour in the Doctor's lair.

Indecision pushed at his thoughts, as it did every night. IX was the problem, but Xavier couldn't find the solution. He could lecture the students and teachers, demand they behave themselves and accept IX, but if he did that, it would simply weaken IX's position in their ranks. They would see it as IX having to hide behind him and seek his protection. On top of that, IX had never come to him for aid. No matter what happened, IX never reached out to him. Xavier was reluctant to act without IX coming to him first. For now, the assassin wasn't overly bothered by the students' behavior. It was better for him to work it out with them himself, than to have the adults try and force it.

_Perhaps I should allow IX the use of his power?_  No, he dismissed the thought, remembering the feel of blood on his skin. IX was too dangerous. He didn't understand the meaning of a warning. If he used his powers against the students, it would be to kill.

Rubbing his temples, Xavier closed his eyes and like every night before, he chose to do nothing.

* * *

Logan sat on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees as his fingers gripped his hair. Every breath was a ragged pant. Sweat beaded on his skin, sliding in tiny rivers down his naked back. All of his focus was drawn inward, focused on containing the raging monster inside of him.

Things hadn't been so bad when IX was locked up, but after he'd been thrown to the wolves, it became almost impossible remain in control. Bad enough he was forced to see IX, to be tormented by his delicious scent, but what the students were doing made things a thousand times worse. The rage had become like a second heartbeat in his chest, one that throbbed for blood instead of pumping it through his body.

"I won't let you escape," he hissed between clenched teeth as a drop of sweat fell from his chin. Everything that was X demanded he defend and protect the tiny assassin, but Logan refused to do so. The past four months were nothing short of hell as he fought against the demon in his mind. Why wasn't Xavier doing something? He couldn't even confront the bald bastard, because his anger only fueled X. At this point, he'd taken to avoiding the rest of the inhabitants of the school entirely to keep in control.

The one time he'd smelled IX's blood, he'd almost lost control. It was the only time he'd reached out to Xavier, and together they'd put their mental shoulders against the door of nightmares to keep the monster caged.

He couldn't even eat in the dining room anymore because every time he saw the little bastards deprive X's mate of food, the renegade weapon in his skull was thrown into a killing rage. Logan knew he was all that stood between the students and a bloody death.

A low growl trickled through his lips like venom, unnoticed by Logan.

At first, he hadn't believed the Professor about the whole multiple personality bullshit, but as weeks wore into exhausting months, he found himself starting to believe. Even when he slept, Logan found himself bone weary. Staying in control was becoming more difficult by the day, and the depths of his mind whispered sweet promises of relief to his drained mind.

_No. I will…not…yield._

* * *

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Scott's voice slashed over the early morning sounds of the forest like the crack of a bull whip. IX didn't jump like he'd expected the teen to do. Instead, he turned his head enough to give Scott a bland look. His hands were painted red with squirrel blood from the half skinned corpse he held. The sight made Scott's guts churn as he remembered one of the classic signs of a serial killer was mutilating small animals in childhood.  _Then again, he's already killed his fair share of people,_ he thought. But still, those were orders. What if IX had gotten a taste for killing and couldn't stop? He fought down the shiver the thought inspired.

"Well? Can't you handle not killing something for a few months? How long has this been going on?" Scott demanded, waving his hand at the tiny body IX still hadn't dropped.

Tilting his head slightly, IX studied him with those frighteningly dead eyes of his. "I am hungry." Three simple words jerked Scott up short.  _I am hungry._  Bile burned the back of his throat as he really looked at the teen. His face was thinner, the cheek bones sharper than when he'd been released. Now that he was looking, he saw the small fire pit behind IX, and the sharpened stick beside it, ready to spit the prepared body. When he'd first spotted IX, all he'd seen was the blood, the small knife being used to skin the animal. He hadn't taken in the rest of the picture.

Unbidden, memories began to assault him. Student after student maiming IX's food, ruining it before the small teen had a chance to eat. All the teachers had seen the behavior, but like him, he doubted they realized how far it had gotten. He hadn't realized that they weren't letting IX eat at all. That things had gotten so bad he'd been forced to find alternative food sources. Guilt gnawed at his insides, but he refused to show it.

Scott scowled at IX, who stood waiting for punishment. Without a word, the elder mutant turned and stalked away, leaving IX alone with his kill.

* * *

That night, once the students were all seated and about to eat, Scott stood. He waited until silence fell over the dining hall. One of the students who'd been creeping towards IX froze, not wanting to draw attention to himself or the jar of homemade purple slime he had tucked under his shirt.

"Students, it's been brought to my attention that IX is being deprived of food daily. This is not acceptable due to the fact that he's turned to eating squirrels to make up for not being able to eat here." A sneer curled his lips. "In an effort to save the local wildlife, IX's food is now off limits for your pranks. Any student seen ruining IX's food from this point forward will receive a month of bathroom duty." Scott sat down and began eating, ignoring the heated glares directed toward him from the students, and the curious ones shot at him by the other teachers.

Whispers broke out around the room like fall leaves rustling in a sharp wind.

_Eeww, how gross, he eats squirrels?_

_Monster._

_I can't believe he'd kill the poor little animals._

_Ha! Squirrel pie anyone?_

_Disgusting._

IX let the words wash over him apathetically. The taunting remarks were no different than the ones the caged mutants used to shout at him while he managed them. Ignoring the students, he pulled his tray a little closer. Over the months, he'd learned to keep some distance between him and the food to keep from being in the line of fire of whatever prank the students wanted to play on him next. It felt strange to pick his fork up and take a bite of food without anything happening to him, uncomfortable even. With quick precise bites, he ate, finishing well before anyone else.

The food tasted better than the unseasoned meat he'd been eating in the forest, but it still sat like a lump of lead in his gut. IX was tense, even though his face didn't show it, waiting for an attack that didn't come. Not wanting to push his luck, and feeling the endless eyes staring daggers at him, he left the dining room.

When the door closed, he felt someone behind him an instant before icy liquid poured over his head. "Don't forget to drink your milk IX," Pietro hissed in his ear before disappearing. Without bothering to look and see where the speedy mutant went, IX pulled his shirt off to mop up the spilled liquid so he wouldn't get into trouble for the mess.

The door whispered open as he swabbed up the last of the white liquid.

"Squirrels, I mean gah! Sure, I could see, like, rabbits maybe. Or a duck. You know, game type stuff, but who eats squirrels?" Jubilee demanded. Before she could answer, Kitty frozen, staring at IX's still form. Something unpleasant jumped in her stomach when she saw the sharp curve of IX's ribs and the small ridges of his spine. His hair was soaked, small white drops slid down his cheeks like mock tears as he stared at them.

_May I eat? Nope. Nope, nope, nope._ That word resounded in Kitty's mind as the memory of not letting him eat flooded her mind. Her face burned with shame at the memory as she stared at the way his skin stretched over his bones.  _Who eats squirrels? People who have nothing else to eat._

Jubilee grabbed her arm and pulled her around the kneeling teen. "Come on, we've still gotta get our homework done," she said, refusing to look at IX.

Kitty nodded, almost choking on the apology that wanted to escape. She let the other girl pull her away and forced herself to turn her back on IX. Maybe they'd taken the food thing a little too far, but he'd  _stabbed_  Siryn. Kitty remembered the blood on her hands when she'd tried so desperately to keep her friend from bleeding to death.  _What was a few missed meals to that? Nothing. He deserved everything we do to him_ , Kitty thought, refusing to acknowledge the way her stomach twisted as she resisted the urge to look back.

* * *

In the halls between classes, the other students often attacked or pranked him, but it was also one of the few areas where they forgot about him if they didn't have something planned. In classes and the dining hall, they were always hyperaware of his presence. Much of the fear had dissipated in the months since he was forced into their company, but it never left them completely. It was only in the halls while they focused on getting to class before the bell that they forgot to hate and fear him. He was just another body moving in the herd.

Even though the students forgot about him, he never forgot them. An attack could come from anyone at any moment, so IX never allowed his guard to falter. While he couldn't defend himself, IX refused to be taken by surprise by their foolishness.

A sharp cry of fear broke through the normal babble of students, and IX thought a prank meant for him missed its mark. Then he spotted the girl as she began to fall down the stairs. He was closest, and in a few short strides, IX positioned himself to catch her. She crashed into his chest, and IX wrapped his arms around her to keep them both steady.

In the past four months, Alice had gotten used to the prosthetic leg. While it never worked as well as her original, and it took more energy to use, she'd finally mastered it. Except when it came to stairs. They still gave her trouble now and then. The major problem was the simple fact that she had no feeling in the limb, so it was horribly easy to catch her toe on a stair and not know it until it was too late. Her eyes clenched shut as she fell, unable to catch ahold of the banister like she usually did.

The expected pain never came. Instead, she hit something semi-soft, and to her surprise, strong arms slid around her, helping her regain her balance. Turning her head, she smiled and forced her eyes open. "Than-eeeeek!" Her thanks twisted into a scream in her throat when her crystal blue eyes locked on chipped jade. Suddenly the arms around her weren't a comfort. They were a nightmare. Any second the cold darkness would embrace them and he'd take her back to the madman.

"NO, NO, NO!" her wild shrieks rang up and down the staircase as she fought his now crushing grip.

IX gritted his teeth and tightened his hold on the hysterical girl. "Be still girl, I am not hurting you," he said, but the words were lost beneath her terrified screams. It would have been simple enough to just let the flailing girl go, but he knew she'd do herself harm in the state she was in. They were near the top of the stairs, and if he released her now, she'd fall.

The students around them were frozen, unable to comprehend what was happening. All they saw was IX holding her, and her screaming like she was dying. But, they had the same problem as IX. The space was too narrow to attack for fear of harming her.

"Let her go," Pyro stood at the top of the stairs, a basketball sized fireball hovering above one hand. IX locked eyes with the fire wielder.

"She will fall."

He felt someone move behind him, and pain shot through him where a large fist connected with his kidney. Stumbling, he lost his grip. Alice fell forward, and began crawling up the stairs. Each breath accompanied by the shrill scream of no. A large hand shoved IX aside, nearly sending him head over heels down the stairs. His hand shot out to catch the railing while Peter shot past him and scooped the frightened girl up into his arms.

Taking advantage of the massive teen between him and Pyro, IX slipped down the stairs, dodging the angry fists and feet of the other students who didn't quite dare use more flashy powers while they were packed together in such a small space.

* * *

Peter desperately wanted to put Alice down and go beat the shit out of IX for what he'd done. The tiny girl clung to his chest, trembling so hard he thought she would shatter. The screams had died down to tormented whimpers that hardly sounded human.

Shouldering open a door to one of the out of the way sitting rooms, he sat down on a soft leather couch and cuddled the terrified girl. "Shhh, it's alright. Did he hurt you?" Peter stroked her hair gently, his hand so large he could palm her skull. Wide eyes looked up at his face, the pupils so large that her liquid blue irises were a tiny ribbon of color around the pits of blackness. Hell stared up at him from the darkness of her eyes.

"H-hurt me?" a choked laugh escaped her. "He's the one who caught me. Brought me to those butchers. God, he…he's the one who stopped me from escaping, always drug me back to the d-doctor." Her eyes clenched shut and she buried her face in his chest before the dam broke inside her.

In all the months she'd been there, she hadn't spoken a word about what happened to her. She hadn't shared how she'd been going to a friend's house when IX appeared out of the darkness like some sort of demon and took her away from everything she'd known and loved. She never spoke about the terror of the cages, the never ending fear as mutant after mutant was killed before her eyes. Not once had she told the story of how she lost her leg, or the part IX played in it.

But now that the words had begun, she found she couldn't stop them. Alice spilled her life out as tears fell like rain down her pale cheeks.

Her words were like tiny blades. Every one cut into Peter's heart. The other two who'd come with Alice were willing to talk about their experiences, but Alice made him live them with her. He suffered alongside her as she laid her soul bare to him. Every word added to his growing rage. There was nothing to be done about the doctor, but IX was here, and he could answer for what he'd done to break such a gentle spirit.

With careful finger tips, he wiped her tears away. "Come on, little one, you'll never become strong again if you don't face IX." She blanched at his words, shaking her head so hard that the corn silk of her hair slapped his face. "Shhh, listen, you won't be along. Okay? I'll be there, and we can get the others too. You'll be safe. But, you need to do this."

Alice's heart pounded wildly in her chest, and she couldn't swallow around the fear lodged in her throat like a bite of poisoned apple. Why was he doing this? It was insanity, but she could see the calm determination in his face, and knew he wouldn't budge. Something, a tiny little flutter deep inside her, flickered. As much as she wanted to refuse, she understood that if she didn't take this step, she would never be able to heal. The rest of her life would be like this, full of pain and fear, even when no one was hurting her. If she couldn't face IX, couldn't handle even looking at him, how could she move past what had been done to her?

"O-okay," she whispered. The brilliant smile that lit his face made a tiny answering smile echo on her own lips.

* * *

IX stood in the shade under his tree. Perhaps it would have been better to return to his room, but he knew that would make things worse. No, the students wouldn't let what passed on the stairs go without retaliation, so he chose to meet them here, where they wouldn't damage the mansion with their indignant fury.

Sunlight filtered through the green leaves, causing dappled shadows to dance across his empty face. Dull pain throbbed where Peter hit him, and he knew if he bothered to look a bruise would already be forming. IX took another deep breath of the clean air as the group approached, led by Adelaide. Her dark serpent tongue flicked out, tasting his scent on the wind. Peter followed in her wake, with Alice tucked next to him, half hidden by his massive size. She looked like a dwarf being escorted by a football player. She was one of the few who were shorter than IX by a couple of inches. Peter towered over them both by nearly two feet. Around them, other students flocked. No one wanted to miss the upcoming fight.

Pietro gave IX a dark smirk, silently taunting him with his eyes as he stood alone facing them all.

Peter ran his large hand over Alice's back, gently nudging her forward. She stared at IX with wide, terror stricken eyes, as if he were a rabies infected bear, and not a boy almost as short as her. "Go on," Peter whispered, encouragement shining in his eyes.

Swallowing hard, Alice stepped forward, standing at the front of the pack as she faced the man who'd ruined her life. "Y-you…" her voice cracked on the word, and she blushed, hating how afraid she was. Nothing would happen to her, Peter promised. IX couldn't hurt her here, not any more. The place where her leg once was itched madly, but she refused to try and scratch it.

She forced herself to begin again. "You took me away from my home." The words were soft, husky with pain and fear, but steady. Alice could do this. "You helped those people hurt me. I…" Now she faltered, not sure what to say. Then her head lifted, and for the first time since she saw him unconscious in the medical wing, she looked him full in the face. "I want you to apologize for what you've done. To me, and to everyone else you helped destroy."

IX studied the girl for a second, his features expressionless in the face of her passionate words.

"No."

Her face crumbles a bit. "Why?"

"Because I do not feel regret for what I've done."

Pietro flinched at the words, and almost spoke up, recognizing that whatever happened next was his fault.  _You are correct. I do not feel regret. I feel nothing._ IX's words haunted his thoughts, and he shifted, indecision making his stomach clench.

Rage twisted Peter's features into a mask and in one massive step he was past Alice. His large hand shot out and caught IX by the arm. He shook the small teen viciously. "You. Will. Apologize." He snarled, every word punctuated by another savage shake. On the last syllable, a dull snap broke him from his rage filled trance as both bones in IX's forearm broke, forcing the limb to bend unnaturally in his crushing grip.

Everyone froze, stunned. Instantly, Peter let IX go, guilt replacing the anger on his face.

IX didn't scream. He pulled his arm back, cradling it against his chest as he gave the gathered mob a calculating look. Then his pose changed. Green eyes widened slightly, his shoulders hunched a bit and in a second he went from looking like the impossibly calm and emotionless monster, to a frightened hurt child.

The gathered students seemed to flinch in unison at the look. It was the first time IX had used it against them, and the only reason he did now was because Peter didn't understand his own strength. The small assassin had avoided direct confrontations with the youth known as Colossus due to this fault. Without being able to heal the damage instantly, he knew that Peter could kill him by mistake.

Doubt and guilt tore into the students as they stared at the now pitiful looking IX before a scoff jerked their heads around.

"Don't play pitiful me, IX. I've ssseen the sshow before and I know how it ends," Adelaide said, her slit amber eyes gleamed as she stared at him as if he were a mouse with a broken back. Turning her attention on the rest, she continued. "There wass a mutant who escaped once from hiss cage. He wass quite large, like you Peter, and IX wass there. He feigned being frightened, made the mutant think him cowed, before he struck. Killing the mutant with one blow. Isssn't that right?" Again her cold eyes locked on IX.

Without a word, IX straightened, though he kept his broken arm braised against his chest. The frightened child look vanished as if it had never been. Once more his face was coldly blank, not even showing pain.

An inarticulate sound of rage escaped Peter as fury instantly replaced the guilt he'd been feeling. The anger seemed to double for having almost been tricked into backing down. With a snarl that would make Logan proud, he lunged for IX again.

"No!" Kitty shouted as she dove forward. Her fingers wrapped around IX's ankle a second before Peter would have crashed into him, sending the much larger teen flying through the now untouchable assassin. Pain exploded in Peter's head as he slammed face first into the tree behind IX.

Wiping blood from his streaming nose, Peter turned and glared at Kitty. While he was recovering, the small girl had scrambled up to her feet and to the shock of all there, she'd pulled him behind her and now stood between him and the rest of them.

"What the fuck Kitty?" Peter hissed, rage flashing in his normally calm blue eyes. He took a step towards her, but Kitty reached behind her and gripped IX's uninjured arm. "Why are you protecting that monster?"

Kitty stood tall, jutting her chin out as she glared up at the ridiculously tall mutant. "Why Peter? Why? Are you crazy? You just broke his arm!"

Shame tried to break past the anger, but couldn't quite make it. "So what? He deserved it, you know he does. You're one of the ones who punish him the most." He threw back in her face. Heat burned Kitty's cheeks, but the brittle almost dull sound of bone breaking still rang in her mind. Yes, she'd done a lot of things over the past few months that she wasn't very proud of, but nothing like that. All her pranks had been annoying, or got him detention, but she'd never done anything to physically hurt IX.

After Scott told them about the squirrels, Kitty had been thinking a lot, and she wasn't happy with the person she'd become. IX did some pretty awful things, Kitty was the first to admit that, but did that make what they'd done in return better? No, she knew it didn't. Two wrongs never made a right, no matter how often John would say that three lefts did. Tormenting IX wouldn't change the past, and Kitty couldn't stand by and watch any more. She just couldn't.

"Yes, I was mean to him. But has that made anything better? No. It hasn't. You just broke his arm." Now Kitty turned to Alice. "Do you feel better? Maybe we should cut his leg off too. If we did that, would you be made whole?" It was cruel, she knew it as the words left her mouth. Kitty wanted to call them back when Alice cringed away from her, her face reflecting the remembered agony of her own loss. Without a word, Alice turned and ran as best she could before she could break down again.

"Way to punish the real victim here," Peter said as he stalked past her and IX to follow Alice. The rest of the group had already broken apart, drifting away like early morning fog to avoid dealing with the truth of Kitty's words.

Tears welled up in Kitty's eyes as she watched them leave.

IX stood silently behind her, unable to understand why she'd defended him. Her hand still held on to his undamaged arm, forcing him to let the broken one fall so the bones would stop grinding together without the support of his free hand.

Scrubbing the tears off her cheeks, Kitty turned and gave IX a watery smile. "Well, that could have gone better. So, we should probably go to Hank's office so he can patch you up."

"No." He said before twisting his wrist, forcing her to release him.

Kitty put her hands on her hips and scowled at him. "What do you mean no? You can't just walk around with your arm flopping all over the place. You have to get a cast or something."

Turning away from her, IX walked a little deeper into the forest, scanning the ground for a pair of sticks that would work. "I don't need a cast. The bones will heal quickly. A cast would get in the way." Kitty shook her head, but trotted after him none the less. It took a little while, but he found two sticks that were straight and long enough to work.

"So, what are you doing?" Kitty asked. He turned and gave her a blank look.

"Go back to your friends." The words made her cringe a little before she forced a grin.

"Nope. What are you doing?"

IX stared at her, wondering what prank she was planning now. "I am splinting my arm so the bones will mend easier," he admitted.

"Let me help," she smiled brightly at him, refusing to back down.

Tilting his head slightly, IX pulled the small knife out of his pocket. She cringed, fear flickering in the back of her eyes but refused to react. The Professor said that he couldn't hurt them, and if he hadn't killed anyone over the last four months and buried them in the forest, he wasn't likely to start now. Not when she was trying to help him.

He flipped the knife, and held it out to her hilt first. "Cut off a strip of cloth from the bottom of my shirt."

Her heart beat franticly in her chest as she reached out and took the weapon. Even though she felt bad about everything that happened, being near him alone in the forest was terrifying. Kitty couldn't forget the sight of him driving his makeshift knife into Siryn's chest. Still, she promised to help, and she wouldn't back down just because he was scary.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward and pulled his shirt up a little so she could cut the cloth. A shiver ran through her as her fingers brushed the skin of his stomach. The whole thing felt weirdly intimate and Kitty felt heat fill her cheeks.

Something brushed the side of her face, and she squeaked. The knife slipped and poked his stomach, cutting the skin a bit. "Oh my Gosh! I'm so sorry, are you all right?" She looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes.

IX blinked at her, their eyes almost level, though she was a bit taller. A small line of blood dripped from the wound, but it hadn't hurt much. Instead he stared at her, his fingers hovering over the cheek he'd just touched.

"Why do you turn red like that?" It was something that he'd observed often, mostly in the females, though he could not discern what caused the strange reaction.

Kitty's eyes widened in shock, and the blush returned full force. She sputtered. "I, er, well. Uh, nothing!" IX studied the curious reaction, again he touched her cheek and she jerked her head away from his fingertips. "Stop that."

IX let his hand drop while she returned to maiming his shirt.  _I will need to speak with Mr. Summers about getting more clothes_ , IX thought, though he knew the teacher would be irritated by the request. It would be the third time he'd requested new clothes due to his old ones being destroyed by the students' pranks.

"Kay, got it." She held up the strip for his inspection.

"Cut it into three pieces of equal length."

Kitty did as he asked while he pulled up the sleeve of his broken arm. When she was finished, Kitty glanced up and felt her stomach drop. His arm had a sharp bend in the middle of his forearm, and she could already see the flesh beginning to swell.

Swallowing back the urge to throw up, Kitty said, "Are you sure you don't wanna go to Hank? I mean I'm sure he could give you some pain meds first." Her voice turned into a sharp squeak when he grabbed his wrist and pulled. "IX! Don't do that," she cried out, but as she watched, the bend disappeared. He forced the fractured bones back into alignment without showing any sign of discomfort.

"Holy Cannoli, doesn't that hurt?" She demanded. His face looked like it always did, and he wasn't even shaking.

The look he gave her was eloquent. "Yes. Grab the sticks."

Kitty grabbed the sticks and positioned them where he indicated, all the while thinking about his answer. Even though she'd never hurt him, she'd watched the others do so. He never seemed to react to the pain, and truthfully, Kitty hadn't thought he could feel it. No one would be so emotionless if they actually felt it, could they? Now she realized how wrong she'd been.

IX held the sticks, and kept the pressure on his arm to hold the bones on traction while Kitty tied them to his arm. "Tighter." She cringed, but did as he asked, tightening the bits of cloth so that the bones wouldn't be able to shift out of place before they'd healed.

Once she was finished, IX tugged the sleeve down, concealing the sticks effortlessly. Another lance of guilt stabbed her heart. How many times had he been badly hurt and covered it up like this? Could he have splinted the arm himself, without her help?

"Why do you let them hurt you?" She couldn't help but ask, completely forgetting that this morning she could have been classified as one of 'them'.

IX flexed the fingers in his broken arm, satisfied that the bones were set. He could feel the low warmth in the limb, and knew his power was already at work. By tomorrow, they would be fully mended.

"I am not permitted to harm the students," he answered. Turning away from the puzzle that was Kitty, he started to walk away.

"Hey, wait!" Kitty chased after him before falling in step next to him. "I know you can't hurt people, but don't you know how to fight? Couldn't you just, I don't know, block their punches?"

"No. My training was extensive. I would not be able to defend without attacking. I was trained until my body was able to react faster than thought. The risk of harming a student is too great."

Kitty digested that bit of information. "How come you haven't told the Professor? He'd help you."

IX stopped and gave Kitty a long empty look that made her squirm. "What?" She demanded.

"The Professor is one of the most powerful telepathic mutants I've ever seen. Do you believe anything happens in this school without his knowledge?"

That threw her for a loop. Sure, she knew Xavier was powerful, and that he was a telepath, but still. If he knew what was going on, why didn't he stop it? "That doesn't seem right. He should have helped you." Her naivety confused IX. She was a mutant, and here, certainly she wasn't as blindly innocent as she appeared?

"Charles Xavier is a man who sees himself as good. However, he is angry that I attacked his school and those under his protection. Because he feels he is a good man, he cannot simply torture me for a day and satisfy that anger. Instead, he allows the students and staff to punish me in their own way. This way, I am punished for my deeds, and he can pretend his hands are clean in the matter," IX said. His quiet monotone made Kitty want to hit him.

"What's wrong with you? How can you just accept that? It's so messed up. Wait, do you mean you'd rather he tortured you?" She was stunned by what he was saying. Xavier wouldn't really use them to punish IX, would he?

"It would have simplified things. If I had been whipped in front of the students, their anger would be satisfied and they would have moved on. They wouldn't feel the need to bother me if they thought I'd been properly punished from the start."

His logic was as flawless as it was twisted. Kitty tried to think about how she would have reacted if he had been whipped. It would have made her sick to watch, she knew that. "You're wrong. I would have hated to see anyone treated like that."

"But you were content to watch the other students hurt me. Why is this different?"

Kitty bit her lip. "It's just, well, the adults are supposed to protect us. If they went around whipping you, then they could do that to any of us."

IX shrugged. "Indeed. Pain is a good teacher." That made her scowl at him.

"No it's not."

"It is. If I told you to memorize a lesson and you knew you would get five lashes if you failed to do so, instead of extra homework, you would do it."

"That's crazy. You know that right?" Kitty demanded, unable to believe what he was saying. It was the most she'd ever heard IX speak, and she couldn't believe half of what was coming out of his mouth. No wonder he wasn't bothered by what the students were doing to him if he thought whipping people was a reasonable punishment.

"It's expedient."

"Expedient," she said in a deadpan voice that almost mimicked his. "Right. Well, I say you've been punished enough and I'm not going to let them hurt you anymore."

Again, he stopped to stare at her. Kitty was starting to hate those long looks. His eyes were so cold and dead that it made her skin crawl when he did it. Most of the time, she had a good idea of what people were thinking, but IX was a blank wall. "No. It is not your responsibility to protect me. The students may turn on you in their anger and harm you."

Kitty huffed at him. "So what? No one else is going to stand up to them, so someone has to do it. And unlike you, I don't have to play nicey nice with them." Then her lips split into a wide grin. "Anyway, you're my friend now, so I can't just let you face them alone."

"Friend? We are not friends," IX said, unable to comprehend how she'd come to that conclusion.

"Yep. I've decided to be your friend," she said with a finality that a more socially experienced person would have been able to pick up on.

"We cannot be friends."

"Yes we can."

"I stabbed that girl whom you claim as your friend. She is the reason you punished me. How can you claim me friend and her as well? That is a conflict of interests."

Kitty scowled at him, irritated that he'd bring Siryn into this. "Her name is Theresa, though she prefers to be called Siryn, not 'that girl'. She's my roommate, and yes, we're very good friends. But, that doesn't mean I can't be your friend too. You should apologize to her for stabbing her though."

The apologizing ritual again, IX didn't understand it. He was attacked for apologizing, and attacked for not apologizing. It seemed like a maze with no exit to him. "The," he paused, trying to recall the boy's name and not the number he'd been given at the facility. Names had very little meaning to him, and he hadn't bothered to learn the students' names in the time he'd been here. "The male mutant whose power is speed-"

Again Kitty made that little aggravated sound in the back of her throat. "Pietro."

"Pietro," he repeated. "Informed me that one should never apologize for something they do not feel regret for."

Wide hazel eyes glared at him, anger flaring in their depths. "What do you mean, you don't regret stabbing Siryn," she demanded, her hands clenching. Even though she didn't want to be his enemy any more, he drove her crazy and made her want to prank his pants off sometimes.

Indifferent green eyes studied her face, memorizing the expression of anger on her features. "My emotions were stripped from me during the training process. I feel nothing."

Kitty gaped at him. "What the Hello Kitty kind of training is that?"

He blinked at her, uncertain what felines had to do with the conversation before deciding it was best to ignore the peculiar reference. "I was created to be a living weapon. Emotion would have made me less effective." Kitty shuddered at the admission. Reaching out, she touched his uninjured arm lightly. He gave her hand a puzzled glance, but didn't protest.

"IX, you know they didn't…create…you right?" She stumbled over the word, feeling disgusted by it. "You were born, and had a life before they took you. You were your own person once. IX, you aren't like a robot or something. They didn't build you in a lab. Don't you remember who you were before they kidnapped you?"

IX shook his head, and started walking, letting her gentle hand fall away from him. "I have no memories of life prior to waking in the lab."

"So, what, you grew up there?" That thought was horrifying. Kitty couldn't imagine a little baby being trapped with those monsters. Was it any wonder he turned out the way he was?

"No. I do not remember being a child." The words were spoken quietly, without inflection, just like everything he said, but it made Kitty want to cry for him. What would it be like to have no memory of being a child? There was such wonder in childhood, even if it wasn't perfect, that couldn't quite be felt as a grownup. Even though she wasn't quite an adult yet, Kitty still felt the innocent wonder of childhood had faded. At least she still had her memories of the magic and mysteries life held when she was small.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. IX gave her a curious glance and watched silently as a tear slid down her cheek. He had no idea why she was apologizing to him, or crying. This was the first true conversation he'd had with one of the students, and instead of making them easier to understand, he found himself tangled in an even more complex web of confusion.

Not knowing what else to do, he said, "I accept your apology." A small giggle escaped Kitty at the formal words. Most people would have said it wasn't her fault or simply waived it away.

IX studied her small smile, while more tears fell down her plump cheeks. He was beginning to think the girl was emotionally unstable. That would explain her irrational behavior in attempting to befriend him.

Kitty reached out and gently tugged him to a stop. "So, friends?" She asked once he was looking at her again with that hollow gaze. Now that she knew a bit more about him, his empty face and eyes made sense, even if they still creeped her out.

"I do not know how to be a friend."

She pouted at him. "Don't you have any friends? What about Logan, I thought you guys used to be friends."

IX shook his head. "I was X's handler. He took orders from me and I controlled him. We were not friends."

"Well, were you friends with anyone else?"

"No. I was not close to the other mutants on my team. If any of them went rogue, it was my duty to destroy them."

"Destroy them?" she squeaked.

"Yes."

"Uh, I can see how that might get in the way of friendship."

IX glanced at the setting sun. "It is almost time to eat," he said, turning to head back to the mansion and leaving her to follow or not. Kitty ran after him.

"I don't care if you don't know how to be my friend, I'll teach you," she chirped. A headache was starting to form behind his eyes, and IX wondered what he'd gotten himself into.

 


	26. Cause and Effect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Sorry about the long wait. I was on a two week vacation, and thought I’d have a lot of time to write. Yeah, that didn’t happen. >.

**Chapter Twenty-Six – Cause and Effect**

"If you can't fly, then run,

If you can't run, then walk,

If you can't walk, then crawl,

But whatever you do,

You have to keep moving forward."

Martin Luther King

* * *

The Director's hand clenched into a fist, and if he'd been twenty years younger, he might have indulged his temper by slamming it on the top of his desk. Instead, he forced the digits to straighten and calmly deleted the useless e-mail.

"It has been nearly five months, and we still have no intel on where Stryker went to ground?" He fought to keep his voice low, but anger wove a poisoned undertone beneath the quietly spoken words. How many decades had it been since someone so completely bested him? More than he cared to contemplate. IX went off line months ago, and he still didn't know if his creation was dead or alive. The implant in his brain going dead suggested the weapon had been destroyed. Due to the lack of reports of a berserker unkillable weapon tearing apart a random city, he was forced to conclude that whatever dismantled IX had somehow done the impossible and destroyed X too. It was the only explanation for both weapons falling off the map.

If it weren't for the fact that he'd been betrayed, The Director would have been impressed. Stryker was proving to be more of a threat than he'd first suspected. Hell, the pup reminded him of himself back in the day, which was all the more reason to destroy him once he was found. The world didn't need two men of his caliber squabbling over it.

"Have we received any reports on IX or X?" He demanded.

"No, sir. I've been keeping track, and nothing has appeared in the news to indicate their continued existence." The Voice responded.

"Continue searching, and track down Stryker. I want that bastard found."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

Kitty hadn't had a chance to eat with IX last night. The second she stepped into the dining room, she'd been ambushed by her friends. That hadn't been the happiest meal ever. Instead of understanding what she was doing and why, they interrogated her. They treated her like she was dating an abusive boyfriend or something and had shown up with a black eye.

No matter what she said, they wouldn't listen. In the end, she'd told them all to mind their own business and leave her the heck alone. Siryn's wide, hurt eyes stuck with her though. They were glittering points of accusation, and when her roommate reached up to touch her chest where Kitty knew the scar was, she almost broke. Almost. She hated making everyone worry, and knew that by befriending IX, she was hurting them. Still, she couldn't stand by and let things continue the way they were.

Leaving IX alone wasn't enough, she needed to get everyone else to leave him alone too. Even Kitty's optimism couldn't go further than that. Getting everyone to be friends would be amazing, but she knew an impossible task when she saw one. No, for now, Kitty's major goal was to put a stop to the bullying. Maybe after that she'd be able to work on creating a friendlier atmosphere between IX and the rest of the students.

Sunlight bathed the dining room in big squares, bringing a smile to the short girl's lips. Saturday was turning out to be a beautiful day, and she didn't even let the disgruntled look of her friends sway her when she passed them by.

IX sat in isolated splendor at the end of the table. Humming under her breath, she grabbed a plate of pancakes, three strips of bacon, and a glass of orange juice before she headed straight for him. The soft murmur of conversation died when Kitty entered the no man's land of empty seats separating IX from the rest of the students.

"Kitty." A voice hissed in warning, but she ignored it, not even bothering to look and see who was warning her off.

Without asking, Kitty plopped herself down next to IX. He'd watched her approach from the corner of his eye, and turned his head to look at her fully when she sat down.

"Good morning," Kitty chirped with a wide grin. The grin wilted a little around the edges when he turned back to his bowl of Cheerios without a word. Someone laughed and heat burned in her cheeks. Turning to her own food, she began to eat to hide the embarrassment. It felt like every eye in the room was burning holes into her forehead, and Kitty's stomach clenched unhappily around the first bite of pancakes. Was it like this for IX all the time? If so, she could kind of understand why he hunted in the woods for his food. Even if they hadn't ruined his meals, Kitty couldn't imagine how he ate comfortably while being stared at all the time.

Her fingers shook when she reached out to grab her glass of juice, and to her horror, it slipped out of her grasp. IX's hand shot out, catching the glass before it could topple over, though some of the orange liquid sloshed over the rim onto his hand.

"Er, sorry?" Kitty squeaked when he gave her another cold look. Again he remained silent, much to her irritation. Why in the name of all things soft and fluffy was he ignoring her? Shouldn't he be happy to have a friend? It was better than having her dump juice on his head, wasn't it? Kitty scowled as she watched him clean up the mess.

Before she could figure out what to say, he pushed his half eaten food away and left. Her stomach gave a pitiful gurgle, suddenly not carrying about what the others thought in the face of missing breakfast all together. Without a thought for table manners, she shoveled pancakes into her mouth, finishing them off in record time while ignoring the muffled laughter and conversations she just knew were about her.

Once finished, she leapt up and ran to the door to find IX. If he thought he'd get away with pretending she didn't exist, he was wildly mistaken.

* * *

Adelaide's lips curled in disgust while she watched Kitty make a fool of herself with IX. It would be easier and safer to make friends with a great white shark than that one. Why anyone would want to be IX's friend was beyond her. Tormenting IX probably wasn't the sanest past time, but she knew better than the rest how orders orientated IX was. As long as he saw the Professor as his keeper, then he wouldn't retaliate. But how could anyone  _want_  to spend time with a murderer?

In a way, she could see why Kitty might decide to defend IX. He was small and weak looking. Kitty only saw his true face once, during the attack, and Adelaide figured time must have blunted the memory. How else could she forgive him?

She'd never seen him kill. Never watched blood flow over pale skin or listened to the helpless screams of the damned. Kitty was playing with fire, and didn't even know how badly it could burn her.

_Maybe I sshould warn her?_  She thought as she nibbled a piece of toast. No, Kitty wasn't the sort to listen to warnings. That, and IX had been rendered impotent here. It wasn't like he would hurt Kitty without orders, and the Professor would never turn IX against the students. Everything would be fine.

Did IX deserve a friend? No. Of that, Adelaide was certain. He'd destroyed so many lives that all he deserved was hell for what he'd done. She hated that anyone would look at IX and think to protect him. The fact that it was a fellow mutant was maddening. IX hunted, tortured, and killed other mutants. It was like a water buffalo calf attempting to befriend a muzzled hyena. Sure, it might turn out alright, but probably not.

_Whatever, it'ss her life, let her live it asss she will,_ Adelaide decided. Some people liked to jump off cliffs, and talking sense into someone like that was impossible.

* * *

IX froze when the door behind him crashed open. Closing his eyes, he waited for the inevitable. Instead of pain, or something unpleasant dumped over his head, a small hand gripped his arm.

"IX, why'd you run off like that?" Kitty demanded. He turned, and before he could formulate an answer, she frowned. Her fingers squeezed the arm lightly. Still frowning, she reached out and pulled the sleeve of his sweater up. Her eyes widened in shock when she saw the limb unbound. A tentative finger probed where the bone had been broken yesterday. Her eyes darted up to his face. "I don't…how?" she demanded.

He gently pulled his arm from her loose grip and tugged the sleeve back down. "I told you it would heal."

Kitty gave him an incredulous look. "You never said it would heal overnight. Seriously, wow. I thought you weren't allowed to use your mutation. Isn't that why you have that thing on the back of your head? And why would they stop you from using your mutation if it's just healing anyway? That seems silly to me. Really, healing isn't the sort of thing they should have to block, you know?"

Words seemed to tumble out of her mouth at an impossible rate, and IX wondered if she'd stop talking long enough for him to answer the first question. Finally, they came to an end and her sharp blue eyes locked on his face. It was tempting to turn and walk away again, but IX was certain she'd follow. Maybe if he gave her the answers she was looking for, she'd leave him alone?

With a sigh, he started walking towards the lake. As he suspended, she followed. "Well?"

"Healing is a secondary power for me. It is always active, though when I am in control of my power I can accelerate it to heal instantaneously. Without control, I am able to heal most damage within a twelve hour period." The bland words didn't satisfy the girl's curiosity, if anything, it seemed to prod it to greater heights.

"So if healing is your secondary mutation, what's your primary power?" Kitty asked. Having two powers was rare, but not unheard of.

IX studied the water, wishing she would go away and leave him alone. Mornings were usually peaceful for him. The natural tendency of teenagers to sleep in worked in his favor, but Kitty didn't look the least bit tired. Instead she continued to stare at him, a mountain of questions piling up behind her inquisitive gaze.

Giving in to the inevitable, he replied, "My primary powers are difficult to define. I'm able to do a lot of things."

"Like what?" He could almost hear the small growl of irritation in her tone at his evasive reply.

"A limited form of teleportation. I can create shields around myself, unlock doors, and walk through a crowed unnoticed. I can create fire." He shrugged, as if it didn't matter and what he was saying wasn't impossible.

For the first time ever, words failed her, and Kitty gaped at him.

* * *

It had taken over an hour to untangle himself from Kitty's clinging presence. He couldn't comprehend what she wanted from him, and whenever he asked, all he got was the same response:  _to be friends._  The answer was as baffling now as it was in the beginning. The girl had plenty of friends, so why did she need one more?

Shaking his head, he set aside the puzzle that was Kitty. He didn't know what would happen now. Her insistence on their friendship would result in retaliation from the other students. It didn't matter what they did to him, but what about Kitty? He'd been tasked with defending the students, but hadn't been briefed on what to do if one student attacked another.

A sharp cry of pain broke into his troubled thoughts. IX glanced up and spotted a young boy on the ground not too far away. Red hair blew in the gentle breeze, falling into tearful brown eyes. Crimson oozed from a large scrape on the child's knee, reminding IX of the firearms training, and one of the targets he'd been required to shoot. He recalled how the father in the simulation had cradled the crying girl, and wondered where this child's caregiver was.

He was too young to be a student, and clearly wasn't a member of the staff, so IX chose to dismiss the issue as someone else's problem. Before he could escape, wide brown eyes found him and seemed to become even wetter. The sound of crying grew louder, and when he didn't go to the boy, the child jumped up and ran to him. IX froze when the boy crashed into his legs and clung to him, still sobbing. Pulling his hands up and away from the crying creature, IX stood awkwardly.

"Release me," IX said. The boy didn't, instead he buried his face in IX's stomach and squeezed him like he was an oversized teddy. To IX's dismay, the muffled sobs grew to loud wailing. "Stop," he said, the slightest hint of desperation flavoring the word as green eyes darted around the courtyard.

The scream of wind against flesh made IX's hands lift a little higher in the classic 'hands up don't shoot' pose.

"What the hell did you do?" Pietro growled, appearing a few feet in front of him. IX attempted to step back, but the boy refused to release him. Pietro's form blurred, but he didn't attack. His eyes burned into IX's, demanding answers.

Not wanting to set the speed mutant off, IX kept perfectly still. "I did nothing. The child fell. He saw me and attacked. I have not harmed him."

"Attacked?" Pietro said, anger leaking away against his will. The normally bland look on IX face was a bit off, and he almost laughed when he saw anxiety flare in the depths of those green lifeless orbs. IX clearly had no idea what to do with a crying child, and he couldn't help the small smirk that flared across his lips.

"He will not release me."

Pietro bit back a laugh. Malcom was still crying hysterically, and Pietro thought it had more to do with IX's utter failure to comfort him than the scrap on his knee at this point. The little boy was outrageously spoiled by everyone in the school, and he had no idea what to do with someone like IX.

It was tempting to abandon IX to Malcom's tearful clutches, but guilt over the broken arm thing kept him there. That, and this was an unprecedented chance for amusement at IX's expense.

Stepping back, he looked IX and Malcom over. "Well, duh, you're doing it all wrong."

"I haven't done anything to him."

Pietro ran his fingers though his hair to keep from laughing. "Exactly. You aren't supposed to stand there like a tree, idiot. You're freaking him out."

A hint of a frown touched IX's lips. "I wasn't the one who grabbed him. He grabbed me." IX said, as if that absolved him from any part of the situation. His hands were still raised, and for a second Pietro wondered how long he could stand like that before he got too tired to hold them up.

"Geeze, haven't you ever dealt with kids before?"

"No."

Pietro rolled his eyes at the cold reply to his rhetorical question. It was beyond obvious that IX didn't have a clue what to do.  _Wonder what he'd do with a bawling baby._ The grin died on his lips when he recalled all the blood IX had spilled. He had a feeling that IX's response to a crying baby wouldn't be anywhere near appropriate.  _Good thing he's not allowed to hurt people here, or poor Malcom would be dead._

With an exaggerated sigh, Pietro stepped forward. He frowned when IX stiffened, then felt a tiny sliver of guilt when he realized the short boy was bracing himself for an attack. Glaring, he snapped, "I'm not going to hurt you, relax." The stiff pose didn't change, but IX didn't protest when Pietro reached for his hands.

"Right. When a kid hurts themselves, they'll usually go to an adult for reassurance that they're alright."

Before he could move IX's hands, IX looked down and said in a clear slow voice, "Stop crying. You wound is not life threatening." Pietro slapped a hand to his forehead.  _That was about as reassuring as a pit bull's smile_ , he thought. Malcom must have agreed because the crying reached a pitch that made both teens flinch.

IX gave Pietro an accusing look, clearly blaming him for the deteriorating situation. Stepping forward, Pietro grabbed IX's hands and folded them around Malcom's back. It was like repositioning a mannequin. IX stood with ridged awkwardness. It was obvious that he'd rather be anywhere but there in that moment. "Why is it still crying?"

"He. His name is Malcom and he is a boy. What is it with you people always referring to people as it? Don't do that anymore. It's fucking creepy."

Malcom twisted in IX's arms and gave Pietro a wide, teary eyed look. Pietro flushed, "Oops, sorry kiddo."

"S'okay, but don't say bad words. Jean said it's not nice." The words were thick with tears, but understandable.

IX blinked down at the miniature human being, unable to comprehend how it went from screaming bloody murder to scolding in the space of one heart beat to the next.

"What is your status?" IX demanded. Confused brown eyes blinked up at him, not understanding. That was too much for Pietro, and he howled with laughter. Looking from the laughing mutant to the still teary boy, IX longed for his powers back so he could teleport away. Apparently insanity was the defining feature of the people who lived here. It was better when they tormented him. At least that behavior made since. He decided to ignore Pietro for the moment and focus on the boy whose chin was beginning to quiver in an alarming way. "Do you require the medic?" He tried again.

Malcom blinked, and more fat tears slid down his red cheeks. He sniffled, giving IX his best kicked puppy look. "Can I have some ice cream? That will make me feel better."

"I fail to see how frozen milk and sugar would improve your physical health."

Pietro fell over, laughing so hard he couldn't breathe. For a second, IX wondered if he would be blamed if the foolish mutant managed to die from oxygen deprivation.

At IX's less than positive answer, Malcom's mouth opened and the wailing began again. Closing his eyes against the painful sound, IX reached behind him and gently pulled the six-year old's hands apart. Before Malcom or Pietro could react, he lightly pushed the boy onto the hysterically laughing mutant, then to Pietro's astonishment, he turned and ran.

"Not…fair…" Pietro gasped as Malcom latched onto him, still crying as though his leg were broken instead of scraped.

* * *

"Did you really throw Malcom at Pietro when he started crying?" Kitty demanded. Her voice made IX pause, his pen hovered over the notebook for a second before he finished writing the long string of notes. Minutes passed, and he could hear the short girl begin to fidget while he worked. He'd managed to avoid her for the rest of the day on Saturday by hiding in his room. It was less than dignified, but after dealing with the noisy child, he'd performed a tactical retreat back to safe territory where the rest of them couldn't follow.

At least, he didn't think believe they were permitted in the lower levels of the school. A pile of books slammed down in the spot across from him. "IX!"

Stiffening his spine, IX looked up into Kitty's furious face. "I didn't throw the child. Pietro had previous experience with children, and when the boy would not stop crying, I detangled him from my person and directed him towards Pietro."

"Directed him towards Pietro?" She said, disbelief coloring the words.

"Yes."

"Right. Why was Malcom 'tangled' with your person to begin with?"

IX gave her one of his practiced frowns. "According to Pietro, he was seeking comfort from an adult figure after having damaged himself. However, when I asked if he needed the medic, he requested ice cream. That would have done nothing to alleviate the pain of his scraped knee."

A giggle exploded out of Kitty when IX finished explaining. His eyes narrowed as he stared at her. "Are crying children humorous?" He demanded.

"W-what?" She gasped between chortling laughs.

"Pietro laughed at the crying boy too. Why is he funny?" IX wanted to know. The noise and clingy nature of the child was more bothersome that humorous to the assassin.

At that, Kitty's giggles turned into an all-out belly laugh. Tears rolled down her red cheeks as she tried to catch her breath and failed. After a few minutes of this, IX calmly packed his notes and walked away from the foolish girl. Kitty tried to call him back, but couldn't catch her breath long enough to do so.

* * *

Kitty scowled, anger tingling in her chest when she realized she'd been out maneuvered again. For some reason, IX was avoiding her even more now than he had when she used to torment him. It made no sense to the curly haired girl, but she refused to give up. IX was going to be her friend, even if she had to tie him up to keep him beside her.

With a dejected sigh, she headed towards the lonely tree where IX hung out after classes. Maybe stalking him like this wasn't the best way to earn his friendship, but she didn't know what else to do. If she didn't stalk him, he would ignore her completely, just like he did everyone else. The only time IX paid attention to someone was when they were attacking him, and even then, it was a grudging sort of attention that ended the moment the perpetrator lost interest. Except for the staring. IX never approached anyone, but he always watched them from afar. Honestly, Kitty thought the staring was creepy because she had no idea what he was thinking. Was he dreaming about killing them all? Wondering what they would sound like screaming? Imagining them naked? She just didn't know, and she wasn't sure what he would say if she asked him.

In the past couple of days, she'd learned to take care what she asked because the small assassin was not the type to blunt or sugar coat anything. She could ask him whatever she wanted, and he would answer. Sometimes the answers were traumatic.

" _Did you really kill all those mutants like Pietro said?"_

" _Yes."_

" _Why?"_

" _Because I was ordered to do so."_

A shiver raced down her spine at the memory. Even though Kitty hadn't asked, she had the feeling IX would do anything if he was ordered to. The thought was more than a little terrifying. How could anyone be like that? It was crazy, then again, everything she'd heard about the place he'd come from was crazy.

Her dark thoughts were shattered when the world suddenly exploded into painful motion. Agony shot through her left ankle before roaring darkness swallowed the world.

* * *

"Well, well, well, what do we have here? I go monster hunting and snare a little cat instead." The malicious voice weaved through the dizzying darkness, and Kitty forced her eyes open. Jagged bolts of pain throbbed through the back of her head in time with her heartbeat, and distantly, she felt it echoed in her ankle. The world swayed back and forth in a confused, upside down blur, making the small girl feel sick.

Clenching her eyes shut, she tried to phase. Another wave of agony accompanied by a warning twinge in her gut told her not to try again. Her head felt like it was going to split open any second, spilling her brains onto the grass. "What…happened?" Saliva filled her mouth, and Kitty carefully swallowed it back, refusing to throw up. Getting sick upside down would not be a wonderful experience, and she didn't want to spend an hour washing vomit out of her hair. Just…ew.

A gloating laugh met her question, and she forced her eyes open. It took longer to focus than she liked, but she finally found the face of the teen. He sneered down at her, his dark pit like eyes gloating. "What? Can't escape, little girl? Guess your powers aren't so great after all." He smiled, or at least tried to. The right half of his face looked like it was made out of red gravel, twisting his lips on that side. Not all mutations were pretty, or particularly useful. Marcus's mutation was rock hard skin, but only in patches, like port-wine stain birthmarks. If it weren't for the one spread across his face, he might have been able to play human.

Kitty cringed but kept her mouth shut. Everyone knew he despised the students with flashy mutations, and he'd already been in trouble for bullying the younger kids.

"Let me down," Kitty hissed through gritted teeth. Blood was already roaring in her ears, and her head felt like an over full water balloon. The cruel look in his eyes made her tense stomach clench even harder.

"Now why would I do that? I heard you're IX's little pet now, and someone has to set you straight little girl. After all, we wouldn't want anything bad happening to you, now would we? This is for your own good." Then he smiled again before slamming his fist into her exposed midsection. "IX is fair game for all, and by trying to stand between us and him, you make yourself an equal target," he whispered, still in the tone of mock concern while she choked on a scream.

The pain was like nothing she'd ever felt before, making even the pain in her head dull in comparison. How many times had she seen someone hit IX like this? Dear Goddess, it hurt. Tears poured from her eyes and to her horror, vomit erupted from her mouth to spray over the soft grass in wet chunks.

"Pathetic. If you want to play the hero, little cat, you're going to have to learn how to take a punch. Here let me teach you."

Kitty cringed, wanting to beg him to stop but unable to breath around the agony in her middle and the waves of nausea. Her body tensed, waiting for the pain to rip through her guts again when she heard a scuffling sound.

Cracking an eye open, she saw a short figure standing in front of her.  _IX_ , her lips tried to form the word, but her voice failed her. She looked beyond him and saw Marcus on the ground glaring up at IX. "Leave," IX's voice sounded as empty as always, but under the quiet word, she heard steel.

Marcus scrambled back to his feet, rage purpling the skin of his face that wasn't stone like. He wasn't sure how the little bastard managed it, but he'd practically appeared out of nowhere, caught his punch and turned it aside before tripping him. IX stood between him and Kitty instead of following up on the attack while Marcus was down, which only infuriated the large boy more.

Lashing out, his fist slammed into IX's face. His head turned with the blow, but he didn't fall. Nor did he move out of the way. "You're the one who should leave, before I break you in half bastard."

IX licked the blood from his lips. His cold eyes locked on Marcus's dark ones as the pair stared each other down. The next blow slammed into his abdomen with enough brute force to drive IX to his knees. Still, he didn't cry out or indicate the punch hurt. Instead, he staggered back to his feet, again putting himself between Marcus and Kitty.

"No stop!" Kitty cried out behind him. "Leave him alone."

Marcus laughed, her voice was thick with tears. She was a hell of a lot more fun to play with than IX. "Don't worry Kitten, I'll have you all to myself in a second. Just gotta wait your turn, alright?" With that, he reached out, grabbed IX's arm, and threw the much smaller mutant over his shoulder before slamming him back first into the ground behind them.

Air exploded out of IX's lungs, and it took all his considerable self-control to allow the other mutant to attack without retaliating. He had to protect Kitty, but he could not harm a student. The conflicting orders held him paralyzed, unable to complete the first without disobeying the second.

"Now, where were we?" Marcus purred, as if she were a girl he'd been chatting up in a bar.

"Pathetic." The word was a little breathy, but still dead of emotion. IX sat up slowly, staring at Marcus in a way that made the larger mutant want to flinch. Green eyes scrutinized him, locking on the marred half of his face. "You are jealous of a little girl because her power is far more impressive than yours. Why are you here? You have no power." His lips curled into a fake sneer that eerily mimicked the one Marcus used. "Just a birth defect."

Marcus roared, fury driving all thoughts of Kitty out of his mind as he attacked the downed assassin.

Kitty's scream rang in the cool evening air. Suddenly the temperature around the three plunged, turning her breath white. Blue, half frozen hands clutched Marcus's shoulders, pulling the teen off IX. Bobby drove one of his rock hard fists into Marcus's side, cursing under his breath when he hit a hard spot, making one of his knuckles splinter. Air woofed out of the larger teen as he collapsed to his knees.

"W-what the fuck?" He choked, gaping up at Bobby.

Bobby glared down at him, fury burning in the cold depths of his blue eyes. "I don't care what you do to it." His eyes flicked to IX's still, bloody form. "But don't you dare hurt Kitty. Get out of here, the Professor will want to talk to you." Something vindictive flashed in his eyes. "You should probably pack. You were warned about picking on other students."

Marcus sputtered. "What? That's not fair. Everyone beats the shit out of IX. No one's been punished for it."

"But you attacked Kitty. That's unacceptable." Bobby took a threatening step forward, causing the cold to focus around Marcus. Swallowing hard, he staggered to his feet and ran.

Turning around, he went to the still dangling girl. With a thought, he made a blade of ice to cut the thin nylon rope and flinched when Kitty fell. Before he had a chance to help her up, Kitty was on her feet.

"Are you al-" Pain blazed in his cheek when she slapped him hard enough to jerk his head to the side. "What the hell Kitty?" He shouted, his hand coming up to touch the reddening skin.

"What the hell?" She snapped back, and he actually cringed away from her. Kitty never cursed. Never. He gulped and held up his hands in an attempt to placate her. What was going on? He'd just saved her for Christ's sake. Why was she attacking him?

Kitty poked him hard in the chest. "I'll tell you what the hell Robert Drake." At the use of his full real name, Bobby almost whimpered. "What's wrong with you, huh? It's okay for Marcus to beat up IX, but not me? Do you even hear the crazy crap coming out of your face? You're no better than he is!" She threw her hands up in the air, tears still coursed down reddened cheeks, and the look in her eyes made him want to beg her for forgiveness.

He shoved the emotion down, masking it with indignant anger. Bobby's chest puffed up and he glared down at her. "I saved you, and this is how you thank me? Nice, Kitty. Real nice." He held on to the edges of his mock anger, drawing it around him like a tattered cloak as he turned and stalked back towards the mansion, not even bothering to check on IX.

All of the strength her rage gave her collapsed once Bobby was out of sight, and Kitty crumpled to her knees. Her head was killing her, it felt like she'd been hit in the gut by the hulk, her ankle was screaming a lovely counter point of pain to it all, and to top it all off, her hair smelled like vomit. Unable to help it, Kitty started crying again as she crawled miserably towards IX. She'd thought Bobby was her friend, how could he be such a total jerk? It wasn't fair.

Her pity party came to an abrupt end when she saw IX's battered face. "Oh my gosh, IX! Are you alright? IX?" Kitty reached out a hesitant hand, not sure where to touch him that wouldn't hurt him more. How could anyone do this to another person? It was sick.

IX's hand shot up and gently captured her wrist. One blank green eye opened and stared at her before darting around, attempting to locate the enemy.

"Shh, it's okay. We're alright now. Bobby came and…er…chased Marcus off." She wasn't sure if what Bobby said was true, but she hoped the bully was kicked out for what he'd done.

Some of the tension drained from him at her words. "Are you injured?" The dull monotone words took her by surprise. Here he was, bleeding and broken looking, and he wanted to know if she was hurt? Kitty couldn't help but grin through her tears.

"I'm not as hurt as you." Again that eye opened, pinning her in place.

"How injured are you?" he demanded.

Kitty swallowed, and that sent another wave of pain through her head. "Um, I hit my head on the tree, and my ankle really hurts. And my stomach where…he hit me." The last was said in a quiet squeak, as if she still couldn't believe someone would do that to her.

"Why didn't you use your power?"

Heat burned in her cheeks. "I tried, but it didn't work."

IX nodded as if that made sense. "Your power requires you to activate it. Such powers can be disrupted by a concussion." The way he said it made Kitty flinch. She could tell he spoke from experience, and she couldn't help but wonder how many kids he'd attacked from behind, deliberately inducing concussions so he could take them out without them being able to use their powers. _Is that what he would have done to me, if he'd gotten away and then came back later to collect us?_  The others told them about what IX's organization did when they found enclaves of mutants, and it wasn't pretty. Nothing about who IX used to be was pretty.  _But he can be more than what he was, that's why the Professor kept him, isn't it? IX doesn't have to be a monster._

"Why did you taunt him like that?" Kitty demanded, remembering IX's cruel words and how they'd driven Marcus to attack him.

"It was the best way to keep his attention on me."

_Instead of you_ , Kitty finished silently, realizing IX had offered himself up as an alternative target to protect her. Shame and joy mingled oddly in her chest at the thought. She hated the fact that she was the reason he was hurt, yet couldn't help but feel happy he'd defended her. Maybe he was finally starting to be her friend.

A low hiss drew her out of her thoughts, and to Kitty's horror, IX was sitting up. "No don't! I'll go get help." She tried to stand, and fell over. The pain in her ankle shot through everything else, and made her cry out.

IX's arm slid under her shoulder. "IX!" He didn't react, instead, he slowly pulled her to her feet.

"Put your weight on me. I'll take you to the infirmary." His voice was as bland as always, without a hint of pain. Then again, she'd seen him shrug off a broken arm, and knew that even if he refused to show it, he still felt pain. Biting her lip to keep from protesting, Kitty let him take most of her weight. She knew how stubborn he could be, and this way, they'd both be in the infirmary soon.

* * *

"What happened?" Hank rumbled. If it wasn't for the fact that IX's face was black and blue, still leaking blood, he would have pounced on the young assassin. Then again, he wasn't likely to bring his own victim to the medic if he had been the one to hurt Kitty. Not that he could harm any of the students. Still, the scent of blood, fear, and IX combined to make his fur prickle. Even months later, and having zero interaction with IX, he couldn't shake the feeling of animosity.

"Kitty fell into a trap meant for me. Her ankle was injured, and I believe she has a concussion, along with abdominal bruising." IX's cold assessment made his lips twitch in an aborted snarl.

"And you?"

"I'm fine."

Hank snorted. The kid had balls, he'd give him that. Then again, with his ability to heal he could be half dead and not have a scratch on him come morning. Gentler than he expected, IX helped Kitty onto the exam table. He turned to leave when her small hand captured his. "Please stay? Let Hank look you over?" IX stared down at her for a long moment before giving a slight nod of acquiescence. He stepped aside, letting Hank take his place.

"Alright Kitty, please tell me what happened," he asked, not only so he knew the sequence of events, but to test her recollection to help determine the severity of the concussion.

She swallowed once, looking down at the ground in shame for having fallen for something so stupid. IX never would have been caught in the trap, she was sure. "Well, um, I was looking for IX and went to the oak tree by the lake where he likes doing homework sometimes. I didn't see the snare, and it pulled me upside down by my left ankle. It sort of flung me back, and I hit my head on the tree trunk. I think I blacked out for a second, then Marcus was there." Her eyes darkened at the memory.

"Marcus?"

"Yeah, he's the one who set it up. Said he was h-hunting monsters but caught me instead. Then he punched me in the stomach." Heat burned her cheeks but she forced herself to continue. "I threw up," Kitty admitted weakly.

Hank patted her hand. "I would have thrown up too."

"Really?"

"Yes. Head injuries often make you feel sick, add being upside down and hit in the stomach, well I don't think anyone would have been able to hold their cookies. What happened next?"

"Oh! IX came and pushed Marcus away when he tried to hit me again. Then he kept Marcus focused on him until Bobby came."

"Where's Bobby and Marcus now?"

Kitty scowled. "Who knows? They're both jerks."

"Kitty!"

"What? They are. Sure, Bobby helped out, but only cuz I was hurt. He told Marcus that he could hurt IX all he wanted, but not me. That's so wrong," she glared at Hank, daring him to disagree.

The blue mutant again held his hands up to pacify her. After all, he'd seen some of the results of her more creative endeavors when punishing IX, and he had no wish to walk around with pink fur. Pink just wasn't his color.

Over the next half hour, he asked Kitty an endless stream of questions, did an x-ray of her ankle, and proclaimed it broken. She ended up choosing a purple tiger stripe design for her cast.

"Do you have a permanent marker?" Kitty asked, her wide blue eyes pleading. Hank gave a soft smile and fetched her one.

Next her eyes landed on IX, who hadn't moved from his spot beside her. "Here, sign it," she gave him the marker? IX blinked at her.

"Sign what?"

"My cast, silly," she giggled at him.

"Why?"

"Because that's what friends do."

He decided not to argue, knowing that no matter how often he told her they weren't friends, she wouldn't agree. Instead he wrote  **IX** , the letters as mechanically perfect as something printed on a box. Kitty held back a sigh as she stared at the letters.

"Your turn," Hank grinned.

To Kitty's shock, IX's body stiffened ever so slightly. If he hadn't been right next to her, she wouldn't have seen it.  _Is he afraid of Hank? No, that can't be true. IX isn't afraid of anything._ She studied his face, but it was hard to read anything beyond the bruising. His right eye was completely shut from the swelling, and the left was as blank as ever.

IX stiffly switched places with Kitty. He stared up at the ceiling while Hank poked and prodded each sore spot. After an endless repetition of 'does that hurt?' the healer was satisfied.

"It looks like nothings broken. There are a few deep tissue bruises, but everything else is superficial."

IX nodded, refraining from pointing out that he'd told the man he fine. "May I go now?"

Hank grinned. "Sure, make sure Kitty doesn't fall over, okay? Crutches can be a pain to get used to."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

The scent of smoke drifted through the forest, and under the burning wood smell, Trowa caught the aroma of cooking meat. Anger drew him towards the smell. He moved silently through the woods, feeling more at home in the foliage than he ever did in doors. Even though his mutation didn't require natural habitats to work, he still liked using it in the woods best. There was nothing better than sneaking up on a grazing deer and being able to run a hand over its velvet fur before it knew he was there.

When he grew up, he planned on being a wildlife photographer. There were a lot of people who would have used his gift to kill people or spy, but Trowa wasn't interested in any of that. He planned on getting the most detailed photos ever. The natural world would unfold before his eyes, entirely unaware he was there, watching and documenting everything. It was one of his fondest dreams to be the first to document the life cycle of the Snow Leopard. Very few photographers had managed to capture the mysterious cats on film, and none could boast a full documentary of the animals in their natural habitat.

He stepped out into the hidden clearing. Glee shot through him when IX didn't look up. Even though he'd tested it a few times in the mansion, he hadn't been certain it would work when it was just the two of them with no other students to act as a distraction. Sure, it worked on everyone else, and made the other kids ban him from playing hide and go seek, but IX was different. If anyone would have been able to see through his camouflage, it would be IX. It wasn't like he was actually invisible or anything. Instead, when he thought about it, he could go unnoticed. In a crowd, people would walk around him, but their conscious minds wouldn't register his presence.

The delight at proving to himself that he could sneak up on the assassin died when IX pulled the roasted quail carcass off the fire. A sharp spike of anger lanced through him while he watched the tiny murderer cut a sliver of flesh off the helpless bird. Even though the students weren't sabotaging his food anymore, he was still hunting in the woods. Not as often, but still. It made the vegetarian boy sick. Yes, predators killed for food, and he even planned on documenting the process when he got older, but there was no reason for IX to kill when they had plenty of food to eat. Bad enough domesticated animals had to suffer horrible conditions to become food for humans, but to kill wild animals, who had lives and families of their own? It was utterly disgusting to kill them when they didn't have to die.

Trowa did not condone violence normally, but for IX, he'd make an exception.

* * *

After the outcry of both students and staff over his eating habits, IX stopped hunting squirrels. Why the furry rodents held a special place in the hearts and minds of the people here was a mystery, but he would refrain to keep the peace. He also decided to keep from hunting rabbits for the same reason. Both animals were small, furry, and rodents, so it was logical to assume that both would upset the students if he killed them.

That left birds and fish, both of which he continued to hunt every few days to keep his skills sharp. He took another bite of the succulent meat. Even without seasoning, and cooked over an open fire, the bird tasted better than anything he got while eating with the students. While the food in the dining hall was cooked well, and there was a variety, he could never relax enough to enjoy it.

Unlike him, the students were more than willing to disobey orders and risk punishment when it suited them.

He started to carve off another slice of flesh when a booted foot slammed into his shoulder. Pain and confusion froze his mind, but not his body. Without thought, he rolled off the log and came up in a crouch. The small paring knife flew before his mind caught up.

_No._

The blade was poorly balanced, but at this distance it didn't matter. A boy who hadn't been there a second ago appeared to his senses with the handle of the knife jutting out of his chest, directly over his heart.

_No._

IX recognized the boy. A student, one of the shyer ones who kept his distance. One whose power IX had not been able to previously identify.

Soft brown hair framed the narrow, now bloodless face. Wide brown eyes stared at him in utter shock. "But…" he gasped, staggering. IX leapt forward, his arms gently easing the boy to the ground.

"Do not speak, be as still as possible." The cold words were enough to keep the boy from thrashing around and finishing the job, but IX saw how the knife twitched with every heartbeat. He knew the blade was cutting the delicate organ still. He would bleed out in minutes at this rate.

Pain flared down his spine. IX bit back a startled cry at the alien sensation, but then he felt the low buzz. Though he could not touch or control it, he felt power beginning to slither through his veins. With the power came pain. Closing his eyes, he fought back the growing agony and reached out with his mind. For the first time since being freed, he willingly asked for aid.

_Help me. Free my power. I can save him._

* * *

Xavier's grading pen slipped from numb fingers when the thought slammed into him. It took less than a second for his mind to merge itself with IX's, and he was almost thrown out again when pain licked across his senses. It ripped relentlessly at the small assassin's body, growing by the second, and it took him precious seconds to understand what was happening.

IX's training hadn't just conditioned his body and mind, but his power. For the first time in his existence, he'd gone against a direct order. He'd skated close to disobedience in the past, but he'd never crossed the line like this.

He'd harmed a student.  _Killed,_  Xavier slammed a mental fist on the thought before it could form. Trowa wasn't dead.

Not yet.

_Free me._

Even through the pain, IX's mental voice was focused. If Xavier could, he would have freed the mutant, but the device could only be disabled in person, and by the time anyone who could do it reached them, both boys would be dead.

Closing his eyes, Xavier gave himself over to his own power. His mind flowed into IX.  _I will be your bridge,_ he thought to IX before he forced himself into place.

It felt like he'd grabbed two ends of a severed electrical wire. Agony blazed in his mind, and he fought his own survival instinct not to let go. IX's power arched like lighting over his mind, burning him as it filled him up before spilling back into IX. Blood began to drip from his nose as his fists gripped the arm rests of his wheel chair.

* * *

The pain grew as his power punished him. Microscopic cuts began to lacerate his internal organs, veins, tissue…everything. Then he felt his Wielder's mind flow into his and the disjointed wrenching sensation of his power now filtered through someone else. With the closer connection, he also felt the echo of agony as his power burned them both.

_No._  He mentally growled.  _The power will destroy you. It is my duty to protect you._

_I order you to save Trowa, IX. If it destroys us both, so be it._

The words echoed in his mind, and IX bowed to Xavier's iron will.

IX rested his hands against Trowa's narrow chest. Closing his eyes, he focused, drawing the power out of himself and down into the damaged flesh. Every second that passed caused the pain to grow, but IX ignored it. He ignored the taste of copper in his throat, the itch in his eyes as tears of blood oozed out from between the tightly clenched lids, and worse by far, the growing echoes of agony coming from Xavier.

They burned together as healing fire spilled down his hands and into the faltering heart.

Trowa gasped, shaking in pain and terror as he watched the knife work its way up out of his chest. The fear spiked when blood began to drip from IX's eyes, nose, and ears. He was frozen as the strange power seemed to throb inside of him, and he fought not to scream around the mind numbing agony of the healing.

IX's head dipped lower and lower, until it almost touched the handle of the knife. Blood dripped freely onto Trowa's chest while he worked. All thought was discarded. His whole world became the wound, the power, the healing. That was all he was as his own blood fled through a million invisible cuts.

Finally the knife wobbled, and fell, leaving behind a red divot and a splash of blood. IX fell to his side, curling into a ball as the agony shook him viciously. The damage was extensive, but he could feel Xavier, still locked to him and still burning.

_You will protect your wielder._

IX forced himself up past the pain and gave Xavier a violent shove, dislodging him from his mind and sending him careening into darkness before he could issue any further orders. Every breath hitched in his chest, and he could feel the pressure of blood filling his lungs. The power no longer punished him for his transgressions, but the damage was done.

Unable to help it, he coughed, spraying a wide fan of blood over the ground next to him. Trowa skittered back on hands and knees. The recent injury driven out of his mind by IX's blood soaked form. "Shit!" He hissed, shock locking him in place. "Are…are you alright?"

IX forced his lips to curl into a false smile. It was ghastly, painted red with fresh blood. "No," the word was little more than a choked exhale.

Smoke drifted up from the fire, bringing with it the acrid scent of burning flesh. Trowa swallowed back the bile in his throat, ignoring the stink of the burning quail while his mind frantically tried to force his body into action. "Right, uh, hold on. Just, stay here. I'll be back." Pine needles hissed beneath his sneakers as he ran, desperate to outrun the wet rattle of IX's breathing and the fear that the small teen would be dead when he got back.


	27. Breaking the Habit

**Chapter Twenty-Seven – Breaking the Habit**

I feel it deep within,

It's just beneath the skin,

I must confess that I feel like a monster.

I hate what I've become,

The nightmare's just begun,

I must confess that I feel like a monster.

Monster, Skillet

* * *

_No._

The word taunted him as Trowa ran. It echoed in his head, etched in spilled blood. Pain flared across his left cheek when a branch cut into the skin. He couldn't stop the hot spill of tears, or the panic stealing every bit of grace from him. The forest was more of a home to him than any house, yet now, when he needed to flow through the trees like liquid silk, they defied him. Roots tripped him up, and rocks that should have been solid rolled under his frantic feet.

Above it all, that word rang again and again. Are you alright?

No.

A blue blur flew past him, causing Trowa to veer to the left so hard he crashed into the trunk of an elm. With all the grace and skill of a blind hippopotamus, Trowa fell onto his back and tried his damnedest not to pass out as the world swirled around him.

Blue, that was important. He tried to force his jarred mind to focus. Blue. The sky was blue, but no, that didn't matter. Nor did blue jays, or blue motorcycles, or… blue mutants. "Beast," he gave a dazed grin before scrambling back up to his feet. Beast was a doctor, just the man he'd been hunting for. Staggering a bit, Trowa returned the way he came. If Beast was here, things would be fine. He was the school medic, a doctor, and an adult. Everything would be fine now. Whatever was wrong with IX would be fixed, and he could go back to hating the tiny mutant in peace without having to think too hard about him.

All thoughts about how wonderfully fine everything would turn out came to a staggering halt when Trowa rounded yet another tree to see Beast remove the last screw holding the power suppressing devise to the back of IX's head.

Before he could give voice to the strangled protest locked in his throat, the metal plate fell to the leaf littered ground. "Shit," he hissed as the small hairs along his arms rose. What the hell? Trowa could almost feel  _something_  flood the small clearing. Even Beast could feel it, if the fluffed out state of his blue fur was any indication.

_Shit, shit, shit, he's gunna kill me,_ Trowa's wild thoughts rooted him to the spot. He knew he should be doing something, like running, or even hiding himself with his power, but the mindless terror kept him locked in place. For the first time in his life he understood how it felt to be hunted with no chance of escape. His heart beat like a wild thing in his chest, and for a second a more rational thought piped up that he'd just been stabbed in the heart, and all this thumping along probably wasn't good for him.

A cross between a squawk and a hysterical laugh tore its way out of his throat at the absurd thought. The abrupt sound jerked Beast's head around, pinning the panicking teen to the spot.

"What a-"

The would-be lecture ended when IX sat up, and before either of them could react, vanished into thin air.

"Well, I suppose things are now well and truly out of hand. Come along Mr. Snyder, let's hope our pet assassin isn't off killing everyone." With that ominous statement hanging in the air like a cloud of mustard gas, Trowa meekly followed behind the much larger mutant. Even though he was the one who'd been stabbed in the chest, he couldn't ignore the fact that he  _might_  bear some responsibility in whatever happened next.

* * *

Hank held in the snarl of frustration clawing to escape his furred throat. It would feel good to release some of the tension singing in his large frame, but he worried that the sound would make the pale teen following behind him faint dead away. The blood on the kid's shirt was troubling, but he'd gotten enough from Xavier in the info mind blast that he knew both what had happened, and what they planned on doing to fix it. Since Trowa was running around the forest, instead of lying in a pool of blood, the doctor could only assume it was a success.

Later, if there was a later, he'd scan the boy's chest to make sure everything healed correctly. If IX was able to heal others the way he healed himself, he had little doubt Trowa would be fine. What Hank didn't know was how this mess began in the first place.  _Idiot was probably tormenting IX again_ , he though mulishly. Unlike the other teachers, he didn't approve of the treatment of the ex-assassin. It was too much like playing with a caged diamond-back rattler. There were only so many times you could stick your hand in the tank without getting bitten. This was akin to poking the snake while it slept. Stupidity didn't cover what they were doing.

His warning fell on deaf ears. Even the Professor was less than helpful, which surprised Hank. Usually, Xavier could be counted on as a pillar for fairness and understanding, but something about IX got to the man, blinding him to the danger. Even great men could be arrogant, believing they had everything under control while chaos reigned around them.

This time, Trowa got a taste of the poison. Thankfully the stupid child hadn't been killed, but Hank knew that was more luck than anything else.  _So much for being incapable of disobeying orders_ , he thought while they ran. Then again, he saw the blood that all but poured out of the fallen mutant in the seconds before he managed to get the device off. What would have happened if IX hadn't been able to access his power? He didn't know.

_There is much we don't know_.

* * *

IX appeared in Xavier's office, and stumbled to his knees. Pain crawled through his veins like acid, but he didn't have time. With barely a thought he sent another pulse of power through himself, shoring up the damage enough for him to function without collapsing.

Blinking, IX cleared the blood from his eyes enough to see Xavier face down on the desk. Blood pooled beneath the bald head, leaking from his nose. IX felt his chest tighten at the sight. Was he too late? Had he failed? Another stab of pain shot through him at the thought as his power lashed out in warning. He had to save his Wielder.

In seconds he had Xavier on the ground, his head cradled in his lap. Closing his eyes, IX loosed his power. It stabbed into Xavier's mind like a blade of pure light. The damage was extensive. Blood pooled in the soft brain tissue from half a dozen torn veins. Taking a steadying breath, IX focused, healing the damage.

Pain woke Xavier from his stupor half way through the process. It felt like someone had drilled a hole in the top of his skull and dumped a gallon of molten lead into him. Unable to help it, he screamed.

IX bit his bottom lip, pain clawed at his chest at the sound. His duty was to protect his Wielder, not harm him. But he forced himself to fight the pain and continue healing. If he stopped now, it would all be for nothing. They'd both perish.

The heavy wooden door to the office exploded inward with enough force that IX almost lost control of the power. His teeth drove through his bottom lip while he was forced to divide his attention enough to add a shield between him and the enemy. Something slammed into the side of the shield, but he paid no attention to it, unwilling to divert his focus again.

* * *

Xavier's first scream was more than physical. It echoed in the minds of everyone on campus. Jean, Storm, and Scott all dropped everything and ran. When they found the door locked, Scott didn't hesitate to blast it off the frame. What they saw when they entered froze them for a crucial instant. IX, covered in blood, Xavier on the ground, half in his lap and screaming.

"Stop!" Scott shouted, but neither mutant looked at him. Fury flooded his veins. It felt like his power had taken the place of blood, and threatened to explode out of his flesh in a single massive explosion. He knew this would happen. IX was a monster, and they'd been utter fools to think for a second he wouldn't turn on them. His lips curled in a savage snarl as he stalked forward, only to bounce off an invisible field. His hand shot up to his visor and he shot a blast at the barrier.

The brilliant beam of crimson lot shot forward, only to bounce off at an angle and burn a hole in the wall. "Damn it Scott, are you trying to kill us?" Jean shouted. Her mind pushed at the edges of the strange force field, but couldn't get past it. Part of her screamed in fury at being denied her prey, but the rest was shamefully thankful that she wouldn't have to try and touch IX's mind again. The thought of entering his poisoned thoughts made her skin crawl.

Scott turned and glared at her. "No, I'm trying to save Xavier," he snapped back before slamming a fist against the shield. It felt like punishing a brick wall and had about the same effect.

Storm ignored the bickering pair, instead she eased forward and rested a hand against the barrier. The power hummed against her skin, a force unlike anything she'd felt before. Inside the dome, the screaming increased in pitch, wrenching at her heart. She studied the pair, watching tears of blood trickle down IX's face, noting how his teeth pierced his bottom lip, and the intensely focused expression on his face.

A moment later, the horrible screaming died down to a low guttural whine. "IX," Scott growled, willing the tiny assassin to turn. He didn't. Helplessness flooded him, and he silently cursed himself for not dealing with IX back when he'd been bound and helpless.

* * *

Xavier drifted in the echoing silence. The horrid pain faded into a distant, almost pleasant, thrum. Had the world ever been so quiet? Soon, his disjointed thoughts came back together, once more forming a cohesive whole. His mind drifted, exploring the edges of the quiet when he felt it. A crack, no more than one. He frowned. There shouldn't be any cracks.

When his powers first developed, he'd almost been driven mad by them. The strength of his gift - his curse - was beyond anything seen before. In those first years, he'd almost lost himself to the voices in his head. Xavier couldn't remember who he was, or which memories belonged to him. Instead, he'd become an echo chamber for every mind that neared him. He'd nearly killed himself trying to silence the voices. In the end, he'd had to totally isolate himself and build a thick set of mental shields to help separate himself from the world.

He had no choice, it was that or go mad. Even with the thickest shields he could conceive, he'd never been able to block out the voices completely. But, he learned to tone it down, and most importantly, he'd learned how to wall them off from his subconscious. Those bedrock shields held his mind safe from the thoughts and feelings of everyone else. Now he saw a thin spider web of cracks in those vital shields. When had it happened? Then again, did he really have to ask?

There was a price for everything. Did he think he could swim through the swamp of IX's memories and not be damaged by them? Yes, he did.  _Foolish old man_. He thought the nightmares were the price for learning how to tame IX, but he'd been wrong. So very wrong.

For all these months the thoughts and emotions of everyone in the school had bled into his subconscious, like poison seeping into groundwater. Their hate, fear, and disgust poisoned his own thoughts against IX.

Only now, cut off from the thoughts of the school, could he see how flimsy his mental excuses had been for allowing the abuse of IX to continue. Nausea twisted his stomach as he accepted his own compliance. Even though his mind had been damaged, he should have realized what happened. He should have at least checked the shields. But he hadn't. He'd accepted the thoughts of the students, and part of his own subconscious echoed those thoughts back. Even now, he couldn't help the anger he felt towards IX's past deeds.

Even he couldn't forgive IX for all the innocent blood the youth spilled.

Xavier also understood the students' motivation. It wasn't just that IX was a murderer, no, he was a symbol. He was the living embodiment of everything they had to fear in the world. IX was the product of a government that wanted to destroy them. The school was their sanctuary away from the hate and fear of the real world, but IX was Humanity made flesh, sent to destroy them in their beds. They couldn't see him as a person. All they could see was the threat he represented.

_Kitty sees him now_ , he mused. Yes, Kitty. Of all the students, Xavier would have chosen her to be the first to rise above base fear and reach out the hand of friendship. She was special, even in a school full of special children. Kitty gave him hope. Even he'd allowed the Darkness to cloud his mind, but she'd overcome it on her own.

Wearily, he opened his eyes. IX's brilliant green gaze studied his for a long moment. "Are you well, sir?"

"Yes, thank you IX. And Trowa?"

"He is healed." The dull monotone brought weak chuckle to Xavier's lips. They both almost died, but it seemed IX was as unphased as ever. The slight smile dimmed as he looked into the boy's bloody face. Red streaks marked his cheeks, like bloody tear tracks, the tears he'd never willingly cry. It made his chest ache. For all he'd done, IX had been damaged most of all. Unlike the other victims, he hadn't escaped. They, at least, were able to hold onto themselves through the darkness. Their hearts and minds remained a place of freedom and hope.

IX was chained down in every way conceivable.

"I'm so sorry, IX. I promise, from now on, I'll strive to be worthy to be your keeper," his voice broke at the end, but he finally accepted the word. The title. He was IX's keeper, and it was his duty to protect and guide him.

Tilting his head slightly, IX blinked down at him. "Yes, sir. I accept your apology." he acknowledged, unable to comprehend what Xavier was apologizing for.

Xavier drew in a deep breath before turning inward again. Each crack was slowly mended, patched over. They were still weak, and would take several hours of meditation to strengthen, but they would hold for now. Opening his eyes, he offered IX a weak smile. "Help me into my chair, will you?"

"Yes, sir." It took a few awkward minutes, but IX finally got the downed Professor back into his wheel chair. Then he turned and studied the furious teachers on the other side of his shield.

* * *

"Everything is fine now, please remain calm. IX is going to drop the shield and return to his room. Then I'm going to take a quick bath and we'll have a staff meeting. There are many things we need to discuss." His gaze narrowed when he spotted Trowa, half hidden behind Hank. "Come to my office tomorrow after class young man."

"Yes, uh, sir," Trowa squeaked before he turned and ran.

* * *

Xavier's sharp gaze locked on each disgruntled face before moving on to the next. Their thoughts were an agitated chatter in the back of his mind, a cacophony of sound he didn't bother untangling. He had little doubt the thoughts would be verbalized, loudly, and soon.

A chair scraped against the wooden floor as Scott drove himself up to his feet. "What the hell is going on? Why aren't we dealing with that little sociopath? Damn it, this has gone on long enough. I refuse to allow that ... that creature to remain a threat to the school," Scott snarled. In the time it took for Xavier to get cleaned up, he'd decided to put his foot down. What would it take to make Xavier see the truth? An actual death? Did IX have to rip someone's heart out in front of him to get the old man to act?

Yes, he understood Xavier's compassion. How often had they taken one of the lost ones back from Magneto's band of trouble makers? But that was different. Those mutants  _wanted_  to change. They understood the path to peace wouldn't be won through blood, and violence wasn't the answer to the question of how they'd be saved.

They understood. IX wasn't like that. Not one little bit. IX was a cold blooded murder who could, and had, killed on command. He obviously couldn't be controlled, and they were keeping him captive for fuck sake. It wasn't like he came to them looking for a new life. It would be like kidnapping one of the Brotherhood and trying to reform them against their will. Ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous.

Scott respected Xavier, looked up to him like a father, but he knew the man was wrong in this. Keeping IX was impossible. They couldn't keep him locked up, and leaving him free would end in bloodshed. Why couldn't Xavier see that? Sometimes there was no difference between the noble path, and the foolish one.

"Are you finished?" Three little words, but they held such ice that Scott dropped instantly back in his chair. How long had it been since he'd had that tone directed at him? Suddenly he felt like an awkward teenager again who'd been caught trying to sneak out of the mansion.

"I will have no more interruptions, is that understood?" Again Xavier's eyes swept over them. The hardness in those normally kind blue eyes stalled further protest. "Now, I have no excuse for my behavior over the past few months, and neither do the rest of you."

"But, I thought we were here about IX," Jean asked.

"We are. We are here to discuss our appalling behavior towards someone who's already lived a life of victimization."

"Now wait a damn-"

"SILENCE," Xavier's voice boomed throughout the room and resonated in their minds, instantly killing their protests.

"I lived through every memory that child had, and the mere act of reliving them with him damaged my mental shields, allowing the thoughts of the students and staff to influence my behavior. I allowed one of the people under my care to be ruthlessly tormented without putting a stop to it. You, the staff, also allowed the abuse to continue. Not only that, but you partook of your own petty torments against an individual incapable of defending himself."

Heat burned Storm's cheeks as memories assaulted her. How many times had she turned her back when she saw the other kids bullying IX? How often had she assigned unwarranted detentions? Shame flooded her, tightening her chest and making her look down, unable to meet Xavier's penetrating gaze.

Scott's lips curled in a scowl, but it wilted half way through. He remembered high school, and how bad things got after his mutation was discovered. More, he remembered being captured by people like IX. That terror gripped his heart, and he realized that he'd been taking out his past on the boy. Yes, IX was the same as the people who took him, but there was one way he was different. He was also a victim. What if Xavier hadn't saved Scott when he had? What would have become of him? In his heart, he knew he could have ended up just like IX. Another mindless drone following orders. Swallowing hard, he locked eyes with Xavier and let the thoughts and emotions play across the forefront of his mind, acknowledging the wisdom of the old man.

Rage licked at Jean's senses. One by one she sensed the others bow down under the chastisement of Xavier, but she refused to fall for it. They didn't know what IX was really like. They'd never been at his mercy.  _Mercy, ha! That monster has no mercy in him. He would have shattered my mind and thought nothing of it. He would have killed us all and forgotten us the next day. Xavier might trust him, and the others might feel pity for him, but I know what he is. He is death._  Still, she knew the others wouldn't agree, not now. Not even Scott. Sorrow twisted through her heart, a dark loneliness that seemed to echo back from her past. In the forefront of her mind she played thoughts of her actions, and inactions, then she let sorrow and shame fill her while she hid her true thoughts away. Jean wasn't nearly as strong as Xavier when it came to power, but she had the advantage. He was always willing to believe the best of people, and he wasn't the type to dig deeper. No, he'd accept what he saw as truth. If the rest of the sheep wanted to follow their elderly shepherd, so be it. She would simply have to be the sheep dog, and protect the flock when the time came.

"We have all made mistakes. We allowed fear to cloud our judgement, and for that, a student in our care was brutalized. From this point forward, we must strive to do better. IX will no longer be punished unjustly. Any student who bullies IX in the future will be punished. We will no longer turn our eyes away from what's going on in this school. Is that understood?"

"Yes."

"Yeah."

"Agreed."

Xavier gave a sharp smile. "I will be altering IX's orders. He will be permitted to use his power to defend himself, though he is not permitted to deliberately harm a student without provocation. I'm also altering all of the orders so that if he disobeys, his power will not turn against him."

"Is that what happened? His body appeared to be greatly damaged when I found him," Hank asked. He'd had the least amount of contact with IX in the past months, so he wasn't feeling the level of shame the rest were experiencing.

"Yes. It appears his powers were trained alongside his mind. If he disobeys a direct order, his power turns against him."

"What order did he disobey?" Jean asked, careful to keep her tone neutral.

"It appears Trowa attacked him in the woods. Unfortunately, he used his power during the attack, so IX did not recognize him as a student until it was too late," Xavier said.

"Too late?" Storm questioned, remembering the blood staining the front of Trowa's shirt.

"Yes, IX was eating a quail in the woods and had a small paring knife." Xavier paused, knowing the next words would only spark their still smoldering anger, "he threw the blade in reflex when he was attacked. It hit Trowa in the chest."

All his understanding of IX vanished. "Are you kidding? The assassin had a knife, and stabbed one of the students in the chest? Xavier! Are you insane? How many of us has he almost killed without your old orders and no access to his power? Maybe it would be better to keep him locked up."

Xavier sighed. Two steps forward, about two dozen back it seemed. He loved Scott like a son, but sometimes the man was like an ill-tempered terrier. Once he latched on to a thing, he was damned hard to shake off.

Resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration, he said, "The knife was used to cut the meat. Yes, IX attacked a student. However, he did not know it was a student at the time. We are all to blame for what happened in the woods today."

"What? No we-"

"Yes! We are all to blame. If we hadn't permitted the students to think it was perfectly fine to go around kicking IX, then Trowa wouldn't have attacked him. We had the opportunity to nip this in the bud when it first began. Instead we fed the flames and things got out of control." Xavier paused, glaring at each of them in turn. "Did you all honestly think this could go on forever with someone getting hurt? IX may look small, but he is a highly trained assassin. He was also incapable of defending himself. It was only a matter of time before these two factors came into dire conflict. We're only lucky that no one died. As it stands, IX and I both risked our lives to save Trowa."

"What happened Charles?" Hank asked softly, his eyes glittering with suppressed worry for one of his oldest friends.

"Trowa was dying. So was IX for disobeying orders. The only way to save them was for IX to heal Trowa, but with the power inhibiter on, he couldn't access his power." Xavier sighed, closing his eyes. "I acted as a bridge between IX and his power, it almost destroying my brain to do so. His power is...quite intense."

Hank cursed. "Are you insane? What were you thinking? Oh of course you weren't thinking, damned noble asshole. Come on, you're getting scanned now," he snarled. Before Xavier could begin to protest, the blue furred mutant was wheeling him out of the conference room.

The other teachers watched them go with shocked eyes. Jean's fist clenched as anger warred with shame. Xavier almost died to save Trowa. Could she have done that? She was a healer, it was her calling to save lives, not take them. Anger burned, a sullen coal in her chest. Why was she so angry all the time? IX, it all came back to him and what he'd done to her. In her heart, she knew she wouldn't have been able to save Trowa. No, she would never have been able to merge her mind with IX. The shame rose up to smother her endless anger.

What was wrong with her? Why couldn't she just let things go?  _I promise, I'll do better._

* * *

IX let the hot water wash over his naked body while his power washed through it. The damage was extensive. Tiny cuts lined his inner organs, muscles, skin, everywhere. In the forest, he'd only healed himself enough to get to Xavier, now he finished the job. It felt amazing. Power danced through his flesh, touching every part of him as he healed himself.

Months without having access to it made the power all the headier. If he were more whimsical, he might have thought he could fly, drunk on power alone. Instead he healed himself, washed the blood away, and laid down to rest. Even though the energy filled every cell, his physical body was exhausted from all the mad activity of the past few hours.

Before he fell asleep, his mind reached out to touch Xavier's. "Are you well?"

* * *

Xavier let Hank fuss over him. Most of the time the man was able to hide behind his aloft doctor persona, but that wasn't working a bit for him now. Instead he was tugging at his blue fur, making it spike in all sorts of crazed directions while he muttered under his breath about all the tests he'd have to perform.

A low sigh of exasperation escaped him as he was forced to endure yet another test. "I'm fine Hank."

"Fine?! You're crazy, I saw all the blood. You're not fine."

"Yes, there was some damage-"

"Some?" Hank all but shrieked.

"Fine, there was a lot of damage, but IX healed it. I'm fine. If I wasn't fine I'd be dead. Right?"

Looking down at the scans again, Hank could make out the slightest ghost of the damage that had been done. If he was honest with himself, he had no idea how Xavier survived in the first place. Or why the man wasn't a brain damaged, drooling husk.  _Then again, IX should still be a vegetable, his healing power is amazing. I wish I could bottle it up. He could save so many people._ "Fine, you're right," he growled, "but I still-"

"No. I let you do your tests, and the fact that I'm still up and breathing is proof that IX fixed the damage. Now, it's time for-"

_Are you well?_

"Oh for the love of..."  _Yes IX, I'm completely healthy. Hank ran a few tests and everything came back normal._

Hank frowned, "Charles? I think you need more test."

Xavier huffed in exasperation. "How long have you known me? You should know when I'm talking to someone mentally. IX wanted to know if I was alright. So yes, to you, to him, to everyone, for the last time - I'm Fine. Now, come along. It's time for supper and I have some announcements that need to be made."

_IX, please go to supper._

_Yes, sir._

* * *

The need for rest throbbed in every fiber of IX's being, but so did the memory of pain. The mere thought of not immediately following Xavier's command made his muscles twitch in phantom agony. So instead of sleeping, the short assassin rose and dressed. Food would help restore his energy too.

IX's thoughts didn't linger on the knowledge that things were bound to get worse. The students weren't the forgiving sort, and he knew Trowa would have told them about what happened. They were protective of their own, and he had little doubt that he'd be punished extensively for the attack. At least he could heal himself now. That would make all the difference.

Perhaps he'd use his shielding ability to defend himself without risking injury to the other students. Then again, that would only spur them to greater heights. It was like running from a pack of wild dogs, the sight of prey running threw them into a hunting frenzy. Seeing IX, and not being able to dole out their planned abuse would have the same effect on the students, he decided. It was better to let them get it out of their system.

The only major problem was Kitty. The students wouldn't be able to get to him unless they went through her first. IX didn't care what happened to him, but he was tasked with defending the students, and keeping them from harming Kitty would be difficult.

Pushing the problem aside for later consideration, IX trudged out of his room. Food first, then rest, and then he'd figure out how to keep his  _friend_  from being torn to pieces by the raging mob. Unless the mob chose to attack at dinner, then he'd have to wing it. IX rubbed his eyes, forcing his mind into stillness.

* * *

Kitty sat alone at their little corner of the table. Voices rose and fell around her in an endless, mindless tide. Tonight her mind didn't try and filter them, seeking conversations about herself the way her tongue might stray again and again to a sore tooth. IX wasn't even sitting with her, but none of the other student's choose to join her either. Instead they treated this part of the table like a plague zone.  _No one_  sat there. Just Kitty and IX, and now only Kitty.

_Where is he?_  Worry clawed playfully at her lower intestines, twisting her stomach up like a kitten let loose in a basket of yarn. The plate of food in front of her remained untouched. IX hadn't been at lunch, nor in any of his afternoon classes. When she asked around, no one knew where he was.

Then they'd all heard that horrible mental scream and all the teachers ran out, yet no one bothered filling them in on what the heck happened. Instead rumors ran rampant through the school. And, of course, IX was at the heart of all of them. What were the odds he'd disappear, and Xavier would scream, all in the same afternoon? Pretty nonexistant actually, but Kitty refused to believe it. IX didn't hurt people. Well, okay, he used to hurt and kill people, but that was before. He couldn't do that anymore. He  _wouldn't_  do that. Especially not Xavier. Xavier was like, his uber boss, he couldn't kill the Professor.

She bit her bottom lip to keep it from trembling while she tried to make herself believe that.

Someone slid into the seat next to her, causing the small girl to startle. Wide blue eyes locked on IX's exhausted face and before he could react, she threw her arms around him, clinging to him.

IX grunted and fought against the urge to attack. Closing his eyes, he awkwardly patted one of her hands. "Kitty?" He asked as he half-heartedly tried to pull one of the clutching hands off his person. Instead of letting go she clung tighter, and to his silent despair, began sobbing. Tired green eyes drifted around the room, and every face they lit upon turned away. Unlike with the child, no one would save him from the weeping female.

Marshaling the last of his strength he tried to find a solution to this new dilemma. Why did everything have to be so complicated? Life with these people was an endless roller-coaster of confusion. He hadn't even seen the girl for most of the day, so what could possibly be wrong with her?

Had someone harmed her in retaliation for being his friend? Something tightened in his chest at the thought. "Who hurt you?" He demanded.

There was the slightest undertone of something in his normally dead voice that brought Kitty's head up. "Wha?" Tears fell down her soft cheeks, and her eyes were red and puffy from crying.

"Who hurt you?"

Kitty blinked at him in confusion, trying to regain control of her wild emotions. It was only then she noticed the silence. Every student in the dining hall stopped eating and were staring at their little drama. Heat blazed in her cheeks and Kitty jerked away from IX while scrubbing at her heated face in a vain attempt to erase the tears. Not that it would help, she knew her face was all blotchy. It would be an hour at least before she looked like normal.

"What? Oh, um no one hurt me. I was, well, you see I thought uh," again her face burned. How in the world do you tell your friend that you thought he might have spent the afternoon murdering the Principal of the school? "I was just worried about you. Um, where were you?"

IX blinked at her while trying to understand her disjointed attempt at communication. Usually Kitty's problem was the inability to stop talking, now she seemed to struggle with her words. It was peculiar. "Are you well?" He found himself asking that question more often of late, and he wasn't sure why he cared about the status of the people around him. It wasn't like they were members of a team. Their physical and mental wellbeing wouldn't be a factor in an upcoming mission, so why did he care if they were well?

Kitty gave him a watery smile. "Yeah, I'm okay. Are you? You look a little worn out. Have you been sleeping alright? You still look a little thin. Maybe you should eat extra tonight?"

The slightest smile touched the corner of IX's lip. That was the Kitty he'd come to know. Whatever breakdown she'd experienced a moment ago appeared to be over. "I am in need of food and rest."

Her own smile blazed at the sight of his. It wasn't the flimsy fake smile he usually gave. Instead it was that little lip twitch she suspected might someday develop into a real, honest to goodness, smile. In her secret heart, Kitty longed to be the first one to see that real smile. Someday, she would.

A companionable silence fell between them as they ate. All her earlier stomach upset was gone. If he was here, eating with them, then everything must be fine.

* * *

After the students finished eating, but before they were dismissed for the evening, Xavier arrived. He looked terrible. Dark bags hung beneath his exhausted blue eyes, and he seemed paler than normal. All the students remembered the anguished scream they'd heard earlier in the day, and they fell silent, starved for information and assurances.

"Good evening students. First, I wish to inform you that I am doing well and to apologize for any distress I might have caused you earlier in the day. I have a number of announcements to make and would like you all to give me your attention." Xavier's voice was a little rougher than normal, still damaged from screaming.

"I wish to issue a formal apology to one of our students. IX, I failed in my duty as Head of this Institution, to provide a safe environment for all my students and you suffered as a result of that failure. I have no excuse for my inaction in this matter and can only offer my deepest regret that you were harmed due to my unwillingness to act." The silence in the room took on a hostile edge while the students digested what he said. Before they could make their displeasure known, Xavier continued. "The staff has also been lax in living the values of this institute, and permitting such vile behavior."

Now his eyes seemed to lock on every one of the students. "I am ashamed of you all, and of myself. We have become what we fear most. What difference is there between our behavior, and the behavior IX experienced at the hands of the humans who mutilated him?" Angry whispers broke out at that, harsh denials. "Stop. I want you all to think back of your time before you came to me. Think about every student who bullied you for being different, think about every parent who rejected and hated you. All of that hate has festered inside us, and the moment it had an appropriate target, we unleashed it upon him. Please think about what you've done over the past few months to IX."

"He committed crimes against us at the behest of a shadow government organization. We have the right to be angry over that, but we don't have the right to torment someone who cannot defend themselves. If we do that, we're no better than the humans who made IX to begin with. I built this Institute because I believed there was a better way. I believe we can rise above anger, hatred, and fear. Do you? Can you find it within yourselves to forgive? Or are you so jaded by what was done to you that you've lost your hope for a better world?" The hostile mutters shifted back into sullen silence, but they listened.

"We are better than this. We are not bullies, and I refuse to become what the humans fear we are. I refuse to become a monster."

As one, the student body flinched at the last word. Doubt crept into their righteous fury. A small seed, planted in the hearts and minds of the students, the seed of understanding.

"With that in mind, I am enacting the following. IX you now have full access to your powers and may use them as you see fit. You are not permitted to harm the students out of malice, but you _are_  allowed to defend yourself from attack using non-lethal force. Please defend the students to the best of your ability from attack, both internal and external. You may defend your friends from retaliation by the other students." The stink of fear filled the room. Every student turned as one to stare at IX, expecting the tiny killer to attack at any moment.

Instead, he was once again trapped by Kitty's clinging arms as she sobbed into his chest and apologized over her horrible behavior before. IX's dull voice broke the charged silence. "Yes, sir."

"From this day forth, anyone caught antagonizing, attacking, bullying, sabotaging, or in any way behaving like we've seen in the past few months towards IX will be punished. If the transgression is serious, we will expel you from the school, just as we would with any other student who attacks his or her fellow mutants. Is that understood?" The mutter of 'yes, sirs' was less than enthusiastic, but no one refused. They could all see Xavier's iron resolve, and they knew pushing him now, after all that had already happened wouldn't be the smartest thing in the world.

"You are dismissed. Please return to your dorm rooms and give my words due consideration. I want a three thousand word essay about the negative impact bullying has on student psyche due Monday. Is that understood?"

This time the agreement was mingled with groans of dismay. "Good night."

* * *

Crying was the most incomprehensible human expression conceivable, IX decided while shedding his damp shirt. He'd finally managed to escape Kitty's choke hold, and that was only after he'd promised multiple times that he didn't hate her, that she wasn't a monster, and that he forgave her for all the pranks and cruel tricks she'd pulled on him.

He'd been forced to beg her to let him go so he could rest, and remind her that she needed to return to her dorm room before they got in trouble before she'd let him go.

Finally free, IX fled back down into the dubious safety of the holding cells. Xavier's speech lingered in the back of his mind as he drifted off to sleep. He didn't understand the man. Why was he apologizing in the first place? Perhaps he felt that IX's punishment was now finished. It took several months, but maybe the students and staff succeeded in punishing him enough for them to move on.

Now maybe he would be able to work on his primary objective in peace. It would be a lot easier to learn to play human if all the other humans weren't attacking him every time he turned around.

Sleep washed over him.

* * *

_From the top of a 200 meters high building, the angle of depression to the bottom of a second building is 20 degrees. From the same spot, the angle of elevation to the top of the second building is 10 degrees. Calculate the height of the second building._

IX's pencil dipped down to begin the calculation when a jolt went through him. Jerking around, he saw the little kid sitting outside his cell, one hand raised, gripping what looked like thin air. He blinked at the small child, and understood as his power touched the boy at the same time he reached out to grab the air again.

"That's pretty. Yours isn't like the other white lights."

"What do you mean?" IX asked.

Standing up, Malcom skipped into IX's room. A neon green monster truck toy sat forlornly in the hall behind him, forgotten. "Well, you know, I see stuff like powers and stuff. Most peoples are different. Different colors. Some are soft, or bumpy, or well, you know. Different. But, there's the white light ones too."

IX got up from his desk and approached the boy before crouching so they'd be on the same level.

"What do the white light people look like?"

"They have a ball of white light riiight, here." He poked the back of his own neck, near the base of his skull. "Sometimes it's a big ball, and sometimes it's little. Kids are usually little. Anyway, they're glowly white and always a ball. But the adults have a white line that goes from the ball down one arm. You're kinda like them, but different too. You're even differenter than they are!"

"Oh?"

"Yep, you're like a ball that has lots of long tentacles. They're go out of you, stretching and touching. They didn't used to do that. Before you were just a glowy ball, like the others. How'd you grow tentacles? They tickle."

"My power was dormant before. Now it's free. Why are you down here?" IX asked, wondering how the littlest child in the Institute had made it to a level that was supposed to be off limits.

"Oh, I was playing hide and seek, but nobody found me. I'm hungry. Can we go get some cookies? The Oreos, with milk."

IX sighed, but gave in to the inevitable. It wouldn't do to have the child wander alone down here. "Come along."

* * *

Bobby glared up at the ceiling of his dorm room and did his best not to think. He'd been forced to listen to Pyro's ranting all night long about IX, the Professor, and everything else and he was sick to death of it all.

The teachers were a bunch of hypocrites. It wasn't like they weren't picking on the freak too. Everyone did it, so why were they suddenly monsters?  _If everyone jumped off a cliff_  he snorted at the old trope, but even though it was stupid, it still made his conscious twinge. He never thought of himself as a mindless follower before.

Rubbing his eyes, he growled. "Fuck it, if IX cared what we did, he would have stopped us. He's an assassin for God sake. It's not like he couldn't have killed us all at any time." The words rang hollow in his mind, and he went back to trying not to think about it.

The past was the past, and he refused to sit here for a second longer second guessing and psychoanalyzing himself.

All of a sudden the room began to close in on him, it felt like a cage, and Bobby wasn't going to lay here another second. After throwing on his worn sneakers, he stormed out of the room. Maybe a walk around the lake would help kill some of the restlessness burning through his veins.

_Ding_  he froze when IX and Malcom came out of the elevator that led up from the lower  _forbidden_  levels. Familiar anger washed through him, brushing aside the self-doubt. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Malcom, get over here. How dare you take him down into the lower levels?" Cold hissed around them, causing IX's breath to plume.

Stepping forward, IX nudged the boy behind him to protect him from the fallout. Instead of staying behind him like a sensible human being, the little boy pulled away and stuck his tongue out at Bobby. "Why are you so mean, huh? You're such a big meanie all the time. IX and I are getting cookies. I went down cuz we was playing hide and seek, but nobody found me. I found IX and now we're having cookies. So just leave us alone you bully. Jean said no cursing, and you shouldn't yell all the time! I thought you were nice." With that, the small boy gave him a final dark look before he reached out and grabbed IX's hand to pull him past Bobby's shocked form.

* * *

Hate simmered like lava just below the surface of his thoughts. Every breath fanned the flames of the monster locked inside him and gave it strength. The pain of holding it back, keeping it caged, was wearing him down. Logan paced the small confining space of his  _room_.

_My cell, my cage, just a beast within a beast and both of us caged._  The disjointed thoughts were relentless. It didn't matter that the door was unlocked, and he was free to leave this hellish place.

That was a lie, everything was a lie. He couldn't leave. Not without IX. A savage snarl escaped his lips against his will. The horrible sound was like wet, heavy silk being ripped. Or maybe flesh tearing under sharp claws. The shink of metal rank in his ears, and he forced the blades to retract. No.

No. No.

No.

Damn it. Agony throbbed in Logan's temples, keeping pace with his frantic heartbeat. If it weren't for his mutation, he knew he'd have had a heart attack by now. When had he last slept? No. Sleep was bad.

When he slept he dreamed.

A shudder of revulsion rocked his sweaty frame, and Logan slammed his fist into the metal wall, relishing the sharp physical pain for the few seconds it lasted. Every breath seemed to come faster, tearing out of his chest and even though he counted every step, the room began to close in around him. Caging him, locking him down.  _Monster_.

X clawed endlessly at the tattered edges of his sanity. Relentless. The monster was utterly relentless. It never gave him a moment of peace.

_Outside_. The thought cut through his mind like a bolt of lightning, a cleansing burn. Fresh air, game, wilderness. Freedom.

He had to get outside.

Everything would be better then.

* * *

Xavier's head jerked up, pupils dilating in shock as his lecture came to a jagged halt.

"Logan." He gasped the word. How could things have deteriorated so fast?

The students fidgeted in their seats. The look on Xavier's face wasn't a good one. Sometimes having such a powerful Telepath around was creepy, and this was one of those moments.

"Class dismissed, please return to your dorms and remain there until informed otherwise. Thank you."

* * *

Logan's whole being was focused on a single idea, outside. Nothing else mattered. Not the students. Not IX, not the monster in his head. Outside.

Freedom.

Blood.

The elevator doors slid open, and Logan's heart stopped beating for a long hollow second. The stench of IX's blood filled his mind, shattering his concentration.

IX.

Agony, pure and blinding, torn into him. An inhuman scream roared from his parched lips as the cage in his head exploded.

X tore into him like a half mad beast, shredding his mind and destroying any hope of regaining control.

Logan gave up, let go, and fell. Water, cool and unbearably soothing closed around him, and he didn't fight it. No, there was nothing left for him to fight with, nothing left to hold back the demon.

Down he sank, letting the dark and pressure obliterate his thoughts and leave him in blessed, healing silence.

* * *

X roared to the surface of his body. HIS. The pungent scent of IX's blood flowed around him, old, but so much. Too much.

Enough. All who hurt IX would die tonight, then they would leave this place. Freedom. His mind returned to the cave they'd once shared. Yes. They would return to the forest, to the wild. He'd had enough of masters and control. His mate would not be harmed again.

Not by anyone.

Another mind tried to subdue him, to force him back into the box he'd escaped. He roared in defiance, and flung the full fury of his feral mind at the one who tried to cage him again.

* * *

Xavier cried out as X's mind rebelled. Like before, he couldn't get a grip on the feral's thoughts. He couldn't control him, and this time, Logan was beyond even his reach. He could no longer sense Logan, and feared the other half of X's mind had been destroyed.

_IX, X's mind broke free, he is a threat to the students._  Xavier felt sick at the thought of pitting the two Weapons against each other, but he'd seen how indestructible X was in IX's memories. Without Logan, there was little he could do to protect the staff or students.

If IX couldn't stop him, it would be a blood bath.

* * *

Peter rounded the corner at a dead run. Whatever the hell had gotten into the school was in for a rough time, no way would he let it hurt the students.

Then he saw Logan. No, not Logan any more. Glittering metal claws flared in the light, and the mad animal look of the feral's face proved no one was home. Taking a deep breath, he transformed, his flesh shifting like liquid metal.

"Stand down," he shouted, not expecting Logan to stop, but still feeling the impulse to give him a chance to back down since he was an adult and one of the Professor's guests.  _I'm beginning to wonder if we'll survive these guests._

X didn't disappoint. Instead he launched himself at the metallic teen. Peter dove, rolling under the slash of claws, and felt shock jolt through him as one of the blades cut into the flesh of his back.

Cut  _through_  the metal of his back.

Pain and fear flooded him in equal proportions as he came to his feet. There was no blood, but he knew the wound would translate into his flesh when he returned to normal.

Again Logan attacked. It took all Peter's skill to dodge the deadly blades, even then he was cut in half a dozen places in less than a minute.  _I'm not going to survive this_.

He stumbled, and knew his luck was gone. X's blades shot forward to drive into his chest. Closing his eyes, Peter braced himself for the agony.

A low hiss jerked his eyes open. IX stood in front of him, and three crimson blades protruded from his upper back.

"Shit," Peter lurched to his feet and stared in shock at the two frozen figures.

IX held X's wrist as he locked gazes with the enraged feral. The dichotomy of the pair boggled his mind. One tiny, the other huge. One a mask of animal fury, the other blank as a statue. He shuddered when IX's dead voice began to speak.

"The students and staff are not to be harmed. They are to be defended from all threats. Stand down."

X snarled, his face twisting in agony as the band of obedience clamped down on him. The blades vanished, causing IX to stagger slightly before strengthening. Peter watched in stunned silence as the blood slowed, and stopped while the wounds healed in an instant.

"Yield, X." IX's voice was still void of emotion, but it was as final as the word of God. It was a tone that could make mountains bow down.

Sinking to his knees, X fought the compulsion to obey. IX wasn't safe here. He refused to save himself, and X would not stand by any longer. He wouldn't. Months locked away had warn at the leash, and with a final savage howl, the leash of Obedience snapped.

He surged to his feet and drove a fist into IX's gut before slamming the tiny male into a wall. Once everyone was dead, he'd take his mate away from this place, away from everything.

No more masters. He would save IX from himself. Turning, he launched himself at Peter. With a startled curse, Peter dove to the left and scrambled to get upright again before X finished him off when a furious growl jerked his head around.

Confusion froze the massive teen in place as he watched the clawed mutating attack...thin air. Or perhaps not so thin, since he couldn't seem to get through it. The beast of a man whipped around and snarled at IX.

Peter edged around X and saw the shorter teen had regained his feet and was staring intently at X. Again the feral charged, this time at IX, and again he rebounded off an invisible wall. Those terrible claws lashed out, but couldn't cut through.

"Yield."

A snarl met the request, and Peter doubted it was any sort of agreement. Instead X seemed to go mad. He was a typhoon of glittering claws and madness as he threw himself at the invisible force. When he began to tear into the floor as if it was made of foam and not stone, IX jerked his hand up a little and to Peter's shock, X rose into the air by several feet.

Watching the madness, Peter realized that IX had captured him in some sort of bubble.  _But I thought his power was healing?_  Maybe not so much.

"Yield."

Small beads of sweat began dotting IX's forehead, and Peter's relief turned again to fear. He couldn't hold X forever. What happened when the feral broke loose? Well, that was easy. They all died. Peter wasn't the praying type, but now he thought:  _Please, let IX win this test of wills_.

IX stepped forward and rested his forehead against the shield. Something was wrong. His chest hurt. A quick thought proved that the stab wounds healed perfectly, so why did it hurt?

"Yield," he whispered. While his shield could hold up to all sorts of manmade technology, even they had their limits. He had to make the strongest shielding possible to keep the adamantium from cutting through, and he knew he wouldn't be able to hold X for much longer. Not under the continual barrage of his cutting blades.

"Do not force me to destroy you."

The anguish in IX's normally dead voice ripped through X's madness. Wild eyes locked on IX's face, and in the depths of green he saw death.

IX would destroy him.

A low whine broke the back of his defiance. He'd tried to take control and failed. IX would not hesitate to pit his fire against X's healing factor. Closing his eyes, X sank to his knees, head down and back bowed in submission.

Satisfaction flared in IX's mind, and his breath came out in a slow exhale. With a thought, the shield vanished, dropping X down to the mangled floor. Still, the feral remained in position.

IX stalked forward and grabbed a fist full of wild brown hair. Without hesitation, he jerked X's head to the side and sank his teeth into X's neck. The thick meat of him filled IX's mouth, and warmth sang through his heart. Closing his eyes, he bit down until the rich tang of blood filled his mouth. IX swallowed once before allowing his own power to spill into the wound, forcing X's flesh to retain the mark.

Licking the blood from his lips, IX stood. "You will obey me X. Now and always. The students and staff of this Institution are not to be harmed. If attacked, we are to defend them. Is that understood?" X's head dipped lower, and he gave another low whine.

The hit of a smile touched IX's lips as he reached out to run his fingers through X's hair. Before he could react, X leapt to his feet and scooped IX into his massive arms. He didn't even glance at Peter's shocked face as he stalked past. The pair entered the elevator, vanishing back down into the underground as if the last ten minutes hadn't happened.

"Crazy. They're both crazy," he grumbled while hobbling towards the hospital wing.

* * *

It felt like he drank too much soda. Almost like all the bubbles had gotten into his blood, flooding him with the strangest sensation of floating contentment. In seconds, X had them in his room, and to his shock he didn't pull his shirt down to expose his shoulder like normal. Instead he tore IX's shirt off completely. Quickly followed by the rest of his clothing.

IX didn't fight X's strange behavior. Instead he relished the touch, the feel of powerful hands holding him to the bed while X licked and bit over his skin. Every sharp touch felt like coming home and his mind was invaded by X's wild scent. Closing his eyes, IX went boneless against the mattress, relaxing fully for the first time since they were captured.

A desperate whine escaped X when his little mate failed to respond. X's body was so hard it felt like he might die, and all he wanted to do was shove himself into the sinuous form beneath him. Instead he rutted against IX in a parody of what he wanted to do. Groaning, he sank his teeth into IX's shoulder, savoring the lightning rich blood while he clung to IX, desperate to finish it before his own libido burned him to a cinder.

With a final thrust, X moaned, spilling his seed against IX's soft flesh.

IX didn't react to the behavior. Instead his fingers traced lightly over X's exposed back, tracing thick muscles while he savored the warmth of the much larger man. Mild irritation flitted through his mind at their position, and he shoved X's broad shoulder until the feral gave up and rolled over.

The slightest of smiles curled IX's lips as he stretched himself over X's massive chest.

Finally, he could sleep.

* * *

Logan drifted towards the surface slowly, and he fought against the urge to stay below the soothing waves of his inner mind. Let X have the body, keeping it was too hard.

That wasn't it, and he knew it.

No, he was afraid. After fighting with everything he had, Logan failed. How many students died? How many new corpses could be added to the parade of dead trailing behind him?

He didn't want to wake up and face what his weakness wrought, but he refused to hide in his mind like a coward. Taking a long deep breath, he froze. The scent of blood didn't clot the air. In fact, he drew another hungry breath and shuddered. Like a cat let loose in a field of catnip, he wanted to roll in the aroma, to rub himself all over it so he could carry it around with him always.

The taste of lightning lingered on his tongue, and his cock throbbed against something warm. It was then another odor caught his attention.

Cum.

IX, blood, and cum.

Dear God, What had he done? Something shifted on top of him, and Logan felt a moment of total idiocy at not having noticed him sooner. Against his will, Logan's eyes cracked open to see a scruffy mop of dark hair.

Logan swallowed hard and tried not to move. His fingers twitched, and he bit back a groan. Unable to help himself, he lightly stroked the smooth skin of IX's round ass. Again his body throbbed in helpless response and near mindless desire. Logan licked his bottom lip as his hips jerked up, just a tiny bit. Pleasure more potent than anything he could remember burned through him, and he was lost.

Moaning, he rutted up against IX's smooth stomach. Heat filled his face as his body moved in a channel of his own pre cum, but he couldn't stop now. Not even when IX woke with a sleepy murmur. Instead of fighting him, IX rubbed his cheek against Logan's chest, and relaxed. If he'd fought to get away, or even to sit up, Logan could have regained control of himself, but that one little touch drove the blaze inside him to new heights.

With a shuddering moan, he gripped IX's slender hips and shoved himself hard against the hot skin of the teen's stomach, letting loose a spray of hot semen.

As he came down, Logan fought his own revulsion. Taking a long draw of breath, he tasted IX's lack of arousal, of completion. The tiny male cuddled against him, but had found no pleasure in him. Shame washed over him like a bucket of ice water, instantly cooling the heat that was already trying to rise again.  _Damn it, what the fuck is wrong with me? He's a kid for fucks sake. Man I'm sick._

Gritting his teeth, Logan shoved IX off of him. Startled green eyes locked on his before the expression melted back into indifference. "Oh, you have returned."

Logan gaped at him in shock for a second. Then he glared. "Yes, I  _returned_. I'm sure you would have been thrilled if that monster kept control, but no such luck. Why don't you fuck off back to your own room and leave me alone?"

IX studied him. Something unreadable passed behind his eyes before he reached down and dragged a single finger through the stain decorating his belly. Without a word, he brought the finger to his lips and licked it clean.

"OUT," Logan shouted. Furious confusion warred with unbridled lust, and he knew if he didn't get the little bastard out of his room this second, he'd take with the idiotic boy was offering. His cock throbbed enthusiastically for that option.

In the back of his mind X stirred, and to his horror, perked up in interest at the thought. Suddenly he understood that X couldn't mate with IX unless the tiny assassin complied, but Logan had no such problems. He didn't require scent triggers. Hell, humans didn't need any sort of consent.

The thought disgusted him. Reaching out, he grabbed IX and threw him bodily out into to hallway.

IX landed lightly on his feet, baffled by Logan's strange behavior.  _They taste the same_ , he mused as he walked back to his room. For some reason, he thought there would be a difference between Logan and X.

"Oh my God, put some clothes on."

Distracted from his thoughts, IX glanced up at Scott, who'd come down to check on them when they hadn't come up to breakfast. The visored mutant was almost as red as his glasses, and he was stiffly looking the other direction so he wouldn't get another eye full of naked assassin.

Padding barefoot down the hall, IX smiled. His shoulder burned from the lingering bite marks and even though Logan came back, he still felt relaxed. Maybe this wasn't such a bad place to be after all.

* * *

Thank you all for reading, reviewing, and adding me to your favorites.

If you're in the US, have a happy Labor Day!

  



	28. What's In a Name?

**Chapter Twenty-Eight – What's in a name?**

"He who overcomes his anger conquers his greatest enemy." – Latin Proverb

* * *

Logan perched on top of a large boulder, savoring the wind in his hair and the burn of alcohol down his throat as he took another long swig of Jack. He knew it was a pointless gesture, with his metabolism, drinking booze was about as intoxicating as water. Still, the burn on the way down felt good, and maybe if he drank enough he'd get a pleasant buzz. Then maybe he would stop thinking.

Thinking was becoming the bane of his existence. Damn it all, why was this happening to him? Psycho monster in his head, sure he could deal with it. Trapped in a school with a bunch of snobbish mutants who thought their shit didn't stink? Fine. No problem. Being told that he wasn't the dominant personality in his fucked up little relationship with the monster in his head? Alright, not happy about it, but he could deal. But waking up naked with said monster's boy toy?

Not just waking up with the naked assassin. If it was that alone, Logan could have coped. No, that wasn't what made him want to drink himself into oblivion. For a guy with so few memories, you'd think he'd want to hold on to any scrap he could get, but he wished he could use alcohol to rub out that last memory.

The memory of IX's skin under his hand, and his body,  _his_ not X's reacting. How he wanted to finish it, to fill IX up and make him scream for more. A shudder twisted through him, and Logan tilted his head back for another long draw while he tried to ignore the raging hard on between his legs.

He still didn't know what X had done when he escaped. That was blank emptiness. Not a comforting feeling, but true. Logan knew he should go to Baldy and ask, and he should find out what the hell happened to IX to bleed him bad enough to set X off like that. What the fuck was going on while he'd been locked in his endless battle with X?

Instead, he was out here trying the impossible and failing. This was his third bottle, and if the other two were anything to go by, he wasn't going to manage to get drunk. Damn.

Again his mind circled back to the main problem. IX. He wanted the little male, not just X like he'd tried to convince himself.  _How stupid to believe differently, X is me, a twisted broken version of me, but still me._

That was the crux of the matter right there. X and Logan shared the same body, the same attractions, and as much as he hated to admit it, both wanted to sink into IX's tight heat and dominate him completely. The thought flat out did it for him, and it took every strap of humanity he had left not to hunt IX down and finish what they'd begun that morning.  _It's wrong, he's just a kid._

But was he? Was he really? That plagued him the most. IX was young, 11 or 12 at the most, but that didn't match what his senses told him. He didn't smell like a child moving into adolescence. Instead, he smelled like a grown adult. Xavier told him IX was fully developed, explaining about what the scientists did. Could he overlook IX's real age in favor of the truth of his existence?

Thinking about it made his head pound. How could one short man be such a conundrum? It didn't help that the bastards also made him look small, delicate, childlike. That threw his human mind even more. Whenever he was away from the youth, he was swamped by feelings of guilt and disgust. But when IX got too close, all thoughts of civilized behavior went out the window.

Now he knew what he was missing, and already his mouth ached to taste IX again. Was this how X felt all the time? How in the world had the feral slept in the same place with IX for years and not taken advantage of the tiny male? He shook his head and took another long drink. A soft growl slipped from his lips when the last drop of alcohol slid down his throat. Double damn. That was the only booze he'd been able to find, and he'd snatched it from the blue furred mutant's domain. He had a feeling he would have to answer for that later.

X stirred in the back of his mind. Another soft growl curled his lips, but to his surprise, the caged feral didn't attack the bars of his kennel. Whatever happened before he woke up naked with IX left a mark on the animalistic personality, and he seemed to be continent licking his metaphorical wounds. Logan could handle that. He felt better, but he didn't want to begin the fight for dominance again. No, having his mind torn apart over and over was the last thing he wanted. Maybe IX or the Professor managed to cow the alternate? He could only hope.

* * *

Leaves drifted to the ground in a gentle shower of yellow, red, orange, and brown. The scent of fall hung in the air, dancing between the falling leaves like tiny fairies, and Kitty took a deep breath, savoring the day. She'd always loved fall. Pumpkin Pie, Halloween, and giant piles of leaves to play in. The heat of summer mellowed down to a cool comfort that didn't hold the bitter edge of winter yet. Doing homework outside was a must this time of year.

Later, she'd make IX go on a walk through the woods with her, and maybe she'd tease him into a game of tag. She glanced up and smiled as he moved with liquid grace between the falling leaves. The bo staff hissed as it cut the air, beautiful in its deadly intensity. If she tilted her head a little, and let her eyes un-focus, she could almost picture IX fighting against invisible opponents.

After the Professor apologized, IX asked for the weapon back. Though he had no one to practice against, he seemed to enjoy going through the motions alone. Kitty's smile wilted a little when she remembered his response to her begging for training. The bo was such an awesome weapon, and she wanted to master it, but he refused to teach her.

_"The only way I know how to teach is through pain, and I won't harm you."_

Kitty wasn't sure what he meant by that, and wasn't willing to demand an answer. Whatever it was, she knew it would be bloody and horrifying. Nope, she could do without knowing why he used pain as a teacher.  _Because he was taught with pain,_  Kitty bit her lip at the thought, not wanting it to be true. Had they beaten him if he made a mistake? Why would he do the same to her? Couldn't he teach her without hurting her? Maybe, maybe not.

Instead she set her book aside and watched poetry in motion. She knew it would be amazing to see him fight against someone as skilled as himself, and she hoped to see it someday.

IX.

The name always stuck in her throat. It wasn't a name, it was a label. More importantly, it was the designation he'd been given by the bad guys and it still tied him to them. Maybe it was time for IX to get a real name.

"IX?"

Kitty sighed with appreciation as he came to a twirling, perfect stop.  _He'd be amazing at ballet_.

"Yes?" The cool word coupled with his penetrating green gaze made her blush and banish the thought of him prancing across a stage in tights.

"Um, well I was thinking about your name. I mean, I think maybe it's time for you to have a real name, and not just a number? What do you think?" Her voice squeaked a little, and the blush refused to fade as he stared at her.

Tilting his head, IX gave an indifferent shrug she recognized as one of Pietro's mannerisms. It creeped her out when he used other peoples' gestures but she knew that he thought it was his _mission_  to learn to be more human, so she didn't scold him about it. Personally, she thought he was perfect the way he was. Well, maybe he could be a little more expressive, and he could smile more, but she wanted real smiles, real emotion. Not him aping others in an effort to play human.

"My name doesn't matter. Call me what you wish." With that, he went back to his practice, once again ignoring her.

Kitty blinked, unable to decide if she should be pissed or pleased by his response. It was so IX. Of course he didn't care. She could call him Rock, and he'd be happy. He had the emotional range of one after all.

Scowling, she stared at him, no longer thinking about how graceful he was, instead annoyed by his own lack of concern over his name. What if he didn't like it? Would he tell her, or go along with it to make her happy and have to live with a name he hated for the rest of his life? Then she had to chuckle at herself. IX didn't know how to hate, and he was perhaps the bluntest person she'd ever met. She didn't think there was any way he'd accept a name he didn't like.

A red leaf fell on her head, bringing a smile to her lips. At least this one was safe from IX. His bo sliced the air, shredding another unlucky leaf while she pondered what sort of name to give him. The task settled on her shoulders, and Kitty realized how important it was. She was giving IX a real name.  _Like he's a real boy,_  again she giggled.

This time, IX's movements slowed as he glanced over at her.  _Probably wonders why I'm over here laughing like a loon,_  she made a shooing motion with her hand, and he started the dance again.

Names, names, what would be the perfect name? What did she think about when she thought about IX? Scary, but not so much anymore. Sure, she knew he was dangerous, but he was also kind of cute and harmless too. It was a weird mix. His eyes. They were the most amazing shade of green. Maybe she could craft a name around them? Jade? No, that was too girlie, and he already looked girlie enough. He didn't need a girl name to make things worse. Hmm, how about Sage? No, that wouldn't work either. Maybe she should go with something normal like Michael or Dave? She grinned and stifled another chuckle. IX was many things but Normal wasn't even close to one of them. He needed a name that reflected who he was, and wasn't another mask he could slide into place. It had to reflect him, the true him, somehow.

IX leaned the bo against the tree and sat next to her. His back was stiff, but his breath smoothed out into deep tranquility, letting her know he was meditating. That had been a shock to the small girl. She never thought he'd be the meditative type. Closing her eyes, Kitty let her breath match his, and let her thoughts drift away.

In the theater of her mind, IX appeared, once more wielding his bo. He moved like the wind, dancing water, or fire's gentle sway. Even though he was in constant motion, there was a strong sense of peace about him too, as if nothing could ever touch him. Then she pictured him bald with one of those red robes.

He would have made an awesome monk.

"That's it," Kitty shouted. Instead of jumping, IX cracked a single eye to look at her. She pouted before her lips curled into a delighted smile. "I know your name."

"Oh?" Not a hint of curiously showed in his face, but Kitty didn't let that bother her.

"Zen."

"Zen?" He echoed back, tasting the name.

Her grin brightened, it wasn't a no. "Yes. Because you remind me of a Zen Buddhist. You're always so calm and collected. It's perfect."

IX's eye slid shut again, and Kitty drooped. "Zen. It is acceptable." A squeal of delight cut the air as Kitty threw herself at him and hugged the life out of him.

* * *

In the weeks that followed Xavier's announcement, thing settled and a new relationship with Zen began though it wasn't the acceptance Xavier wished, it was better than what had gone before.

Pyro glared at the back of IX's -  _no Zen now, how lame, as if changing his name will change who he was_  - head. He knew the assassin knew he was staring, but it didn't matter. The bastard wouldn't do anything about it. Even though he was no longer bound by Xavier's rules, he never retaliated against their past deeds. Pathetic really, he expected more out of the killer robot.

Instead, Zen was...well a lot like that stupid name Kitty gave him. He was nonreactive. To top it off, the brat was also brilliant. Now that they weren't destroying most of his homework, Zen was at the top of most of their classes. He'd always aced the tests, but with his abysmal homework scores, he'd been a C student. Not that it mattered to Pyro, but Bobby was totally miffed at being lower than Zen. Which, of course, made sharing a room with him a pain in the ass. Now it was all about studying, and not having any fun. Without IX to pick on, he was bored. Things in the world were heating up, and they were here learning about peace and harmony.

So fucking lame.

Flicking her black hair out of her eyes, Jubilee studied Zen and Kitty. She hated how much time her once friend spent with the little killer. Hated how...left out she felt. Maybe she could go over and sit with them?

Instead she turned her troubled eyes back to her meal. No, if Kitty wanted to be his friend that was fine, not like she needed to be friends with the obnoxious girl anyway. Again her eyes strayed back to the two, and she had to squash the urge to get up and join them. Kitty made her choice, and so had Jubilee.

A delighted smile graced Rogue's lips. Fall had finally arrived, and soon it would bring the comforting and cold embrace of winter. In her heart she gave a tiny cheer for the death of summer. No more being too hot. No more being ignored by her friends while they went outside to play, and no more being locked away inside.

Soon, she'd have the freedom of winter and wouldn't have to worry about accidentally draining her friends. They'd all be wearing extra layers, and having fun together. Perfect. Winter wasn't here yet, so she still had a while longer to wait.

IX,  _Zen, his name is Zen now,_ walked past her, down the trial towards the woods. Her fingers twitched, longing to reach out and grab his hand. Not out of malice, but simply to feel someone's hand in hers. The smile died on her face, and she fought the urge to cry. If she hadn't been so stupid, maybe he would be her friend now. Maybe he'd let her touch him. Maybe...

Maybe.

Baleful anger tore at Peter's gut every time he spotted IX.  **IX**  He would always be IX. Zen didn't fit him at all. He wasn't worthy of a name, even one as ridiculous at that. No, he was just a number, and should have always stayed that way. He was a monster.

_He saved me._

No. It was his fault Logan was here in the first place. Both of them were monsters, beasts that belonged to the government and had been sent to destroy them. One didn't befriend monsters. You didn't name them, or care for them.

They didn't save you.

He closed his fist and wished the conflicting emotions would end. Things were easier before. Before the little monster took a killing blow meant for him. Why? Why did he put himself between Peter and X? It was beyond illogical. Yes, he couldn't kill them himself, but why allow himself to be harmed in Peter's stead when he could have let X kill him?

_Do not force me to destroy you._

Peter's teeth ground together. How many times had he tried to erase that from his mind? Not the words. No, the tone.  _IX didn't want to hurt X, it hurt him to think of doing so._  NO. IX couldn't feel, was incapable of feeling.

Wasn't he?

Bobby's pen tapped against his page of homework. Things hadn't gotten back to normal. Hell, he was beginning to think that there was no such thing as normal. He could barely remember life before IX, and now Zen wasn't much better. They no longer attacked the kid, but he was still alien. Zen was like a fox in a pack of hounds.

He didn't belong, and his continued presence put a strain on everyone. They did their best to ignore him, but even though he wasn't interacting with them, his mere existence was wrong. Everything about him grated against his nerves and made him want to lash out.

But, maybe Kitty was right.

Maybe. He snorted. Maybe tomorrow the sun would turn into a golden coin and fall from the sky too.

Anything could happen. Anything at all.

* * *

At first, the ignoring was hostile, a deliberate snub against the stranger in their midst who could no longer be their punching bag. But then, it became habit as time passed and their minds were once again taken up by grades, dating, powers, and the world outside the comfort of the Institute.

Most of the students chose to forget about Zen, though there were a few who could never forget. They still watched, and still harbored hatred, savoring it. The words of one old man weren't enough to turn all from their destructive mindset, and there were a few who were willing to risk punishment in order to punish.

After endless months of torment, Zen's instincts to lash out against any perceived attack were blunted. For Pietro, that was a good thing. The only way the small assassin could stop the speed demon would be through deadly force, so he had to hold back his reaction whenever the idiotic male's self-control broke and he attacked.

Even his shields were useless against Pietro. Now that his powers were free, Zen always sensed his approach, but the speed was too great for him to do anything to stop it. If he could have killed the boy, then he would have, but anything short of that? Undoable. A shield would have worked, if he'd been able to get it up before Pietro got into his personal space. But he was too fast.

That's how Zen ended up duct taped to the ceiling of the great room. As if that wasn't bad enough, the mutant knew about his need for shadows to teleport and had left a flashlight on the ground beneath him, keeping Zen in a perfect circle of light.

Zen's fingers twitched, but no amount of wiggling would free him from the sticky substance. Tape covered his lips, so he couldn't ask for help from the few students who passed, and like all humans, the foolish children never looked up. He could have reached out to Xavier to free him, but something stopped him. Some uncomfortable sensation in his gut made him reluctant to admit his predicament. Now that his power was free, he shouldn't end up in situations like this. It was unprofessional.

Jean entered the room, and Zen held his breath. Of all the people he'd want to see him like this, she was near the bottom of the list. There was something about the woman that set him on edge, a look in her eye that promised pain held back by the slimmest thread. Unlike the other adults, she gave him the sense of danger.

Then Logan appeared behind her. Interest sharpened his gaze as he watched the large feral. In the months since they'd woken up together, Logan made it a point to avoid him. Zen didn't fight him on it, not sure what to do with the duel personality ex-weapon. When they'd been partners, everything seemed so simple, now everything to do with Logan and X was complicated.

A spark of heat flashed in his chest when Logan's hand shot out and grabbed Jean, before he easily turned the woman to face him. That tiny spark grew, burning inside him as the feral's fingers stroked over her cheek, and he stared down into her face like she mattered to him. He couldn't hear the teasing words he whispered over the pounding of his heart, so much louder now than a second ago.

She made a halfhearted attempt to pull away, but Zen knew it was fake. Then Logan bent forward, his rough lips capturing hers while his arms pulled her into his larger frame.

Pain snapped in Zen's chest, fire seemed to burn him, mingled with things he couldn't begin to decipher. It tore through his body, boiling and his dark gaze locked on Jean. His thoughts amplified, narrowed, and were all about her. He imagined sliding a knife between her ribs, how it would feel to shred her heart, slash her throat, and dance in her blood.

Under that, another heat burned. For the first time in Zen's life, his body stirred as jealousy stroked his own desire to life.

* * *

_This is stupid, stop, Scott...he's so hot, I want him, I want him to throw me down and ravish me like the beast he is...no, this isn't right._  Jean's body throbbed with conflicting emotion. Every fiber of her wanted to melt into Logan, to take everything he offered until they both burned to ash. The sane part of her screamed that a student could walk by at any second. That  _Scott_  could walk by. That she was ruining her life.

Fear slammed into her as thoughts of sex were ripped away, replaced by vivid images of death. Fighting back a scream, she jerked back. Wild green eyes darted around the room before finding IX. Those poisonous eyes locked on her, killing the mood like a bucket of ice water.  _Or a bucket of gasoline that he'll light with that gaze._  She hadn't forgotten the tiny burned up town, and how IX could do the same to her with a thought.

Terror won, and without looking back at Logan, or questioning how in the name of God he'd gotten duct taped to the ceiling in the first place, she fled. It was for the best. Logan was trouble, and IX would be the death of her if she didn't take care.

* * *

Logan almost sobbed when the beautiful woman pulled away from him. Since waking up with IX, he'd decided that he wasn't attracted to the tiny male. Not at all. Now that his mind wasn't destroying itself, he'd begun perusing Jean again in earnest.  _I almost had her that time._

Glaring up at the ceiling, and Zen, he sighed. Then a scent drifted down to him that stopped his heart. He closed his eyes, and took another long breath, the exhale coming out in a moan.

X chose that moment to stir. More than that, he lashed out at the cage with the same ferocity he'd shown when he'd caught the scent of IX's blood. "No," Logan growled, fighting to keep control.

Holding his breath, he ran the opposite direction Jean took. He had to get out of here. If X broke free now, hell he'd be fucking Zen right there in the living room for all the kiddies to see. No, no, no. He wouldn't do it.

* * *

Zen made a muffled sound that could have been a shout of frustration. The least they could have done was turned the flash light off so he could teleport. Every beat of his heart made his groin throb painfully against the tight binding of the tape, and he felt like his own power was burning him up from the inside out.  _What did I do wrong?_  He hadn't attacked Pietro. Maybe he was being punished for thinking ill thoughts of a teacher?

Closing his eyes, he took a slow breath, trying to steady his heartbeat. It was then he realized his power was calm in his mind, not burning him.  _What is wrong with me?_

It took another two hours for someone else to come along, though Zen would have preferred Kitty or anyone else. The heat had died down during that time, and he'd convinced himself that nothing was wrong, it was just a strange reaction to the situation and could be safely forgotten.

Peter stopped in the doorway, looked at the flashlight, then up at Zen. His eyes darkened, and Zen knew he was thinking about leaving him there before an explosive sigh escaped the massive mutant.

"Well, I guess I owe you one," he grumbled under his breath before he shoved one of the couches under where Zen was pinned. He didn't move the flashlight however. Zen's eyes narrowed, but there wasn't much he could do.

A wolfish grin flashed on Peter's face as he reached up and worked one corner of the tape up off Zen's cheek before ripping it off his face in a single harsh jerk. Zen hissed. "You don't have to remove all the tape. Turn off the flashlight."

The cruel smile never left Peter's lips. "Where's the fun in that? Why does the flashlight matter anyway? Does the light really keep you from using your power?" Peter asked, curiosity adding a softer undertone to the gloating words.

"My form of teleportation requires shadows to function properly."

"Sure, like a demon or something, right?"

Zen blinked at him. "I do not know any demons or their powers, so I'm unable to compare them to myself."

Peter scowled at the bland reply. How could you insult someone like him? It was impossible. Grumbling under his breath about emotionless robots, he began the tedious task of ripping tap off the trapped assassin. Twenty minutes later, he'd gotten enough off that gravity won and Zen fell, bouncing off the side of the couch to land in a heap due to the numbness in his limbs.

Jumping down, Peter grabbed him and roughly pulled him to his feet. "This doesn't make us friends." he said, wanting to add a punch to make it stick even as he wanted to help the hapless kid sit down and ask if he was alright. He hated the opposing instincts.

"I understand," Zen replied. Not bothering to try and win him over. Instead, he flexed his arms and legs, getting the circulation back as quickly as possible so he could return to his room and have a little peace.

Peter shoved down all his thoughts about IX and let him go with a small shove. "Go on. Get the hell out of here."

* * *

Pain lanced through Zen's left shoulder as X's sharp teeth sank into his flesh. Instead of lying passive, like he always had, his hands reached up to tangle in the feral's hair. Every nerve felt alive, more than ever before. It felt like his skin was too sensitive. Heat burned in his veins, but it wasn't painful.

It was addictive. Again his cock stiffened, and he felt a jolt of unexpected fire when it rubbed along another stiff organ. X groaned into his neck, his tongue stroking Zen's flesh while his hips drove down to grind them together.

"X," Zen groaned, his eyes rolling back as a strange pressure began to build low in his gut. Everything was happening too fast, yet not fast enough. Want filled him up and drove him to jerk his hips up to match X's crushing weight. Panting, he rutted against X's stiff length, desperate for something he couldn't understand.

Then, lighting blazed through his nervous system. It almost felt like dying.

Zen's eyes snapped open. The room seemed to echo with the sound of his harsh breathing, and something damp dripped between his thighs. His hand shook as he reached down to touch the cooling mess. Bringing the soiled fingers up, he sniffed the strange liquid before his tongue darted out for a small taste.

It was the same as X. The same as Logan.

What was happening to him?

* * *

"I need to speak to you."

Kitty's eyes snapped open at the voice, and her vision was filled with Zen's face. With a squeak, she tried to sit up and almost banged her forehead into his, but he jerked back fast enough to avoid a mild concussion.

"Zen?" She rubbed her eyes. Sunlight filtered in through the window, but it was watery. Early morning sunlight. A soft snoring sound proved that her roomie slept on, oblivious to their visitor. "What are you doing in here?" she hissed, worried how Theresa would react if she woke to him in their room.  _Dear Goddess, she'd probably scream until his head popped off._  Then again, maybe not. Even so long after the attack, she was reluctant to use her power. Guilt flared in her chest, like it did every time she thought of what happened, and of trying to befriend Theresa's attacker.

Shoving the unwanted thoughts away, Kitty sat up. "You can't be in here. Come on," getting up, she slid her feet into her Hello Kitty slippers before pushing him out the door. It was only then she realized he was wearing blue plaid pajamas that looked like something Bobby used to wear when he was shorter.

Then her befuddled mind caught up with the situation. Zen had broken into her room in the middle of the night...okay maybe not the middle of the night. Glancing at the clock she saw it was 7:12. Too damned early for a Sunday, that was for sure. She shook her head, trying to focus. Zen came into her room, something he'd never done before, woke her up, and wanted to talk.

He never wanted to talk. Heck, he'd never sought her out in all the time she'd forced her friendship on him. She was always the one who reached out to him, who tried to draw him out. And then there were the pajamas. Why was he wandering around in his night clothes? He'd never done that before.

Fear coiled in her gut. It all added up to a big problem. Whatever he wanted to talk about was going to be bad, she just knew it.

Resigning herself to the inevitable, Kitty brought him to one of the out of the way sitting rooms scattered around the mansion. "Okay, we can talk here. Is that alright? If not, we can get dressed and go talk outside, or maybe we can go to your room and talk if you want privacy. Do you want privacy?"

Zen blinked at her before his hand darted out and covered her lips to put a halt to the endless stream of questions. "Here is fine. Sit down."

Leading by example, he sat on the edge of one of the love seats. She'd spent enough time with him to notice the tautness of his muscles as a bad sign. Zen looked like he would spring back up any second if startled, like a cat tossed onto a go-cart race track.

"What's wrong?"

She watched him draw in a slow breath before he spoke. "There is something wrong with me."

Kitty's heart sank. "Wrong? What's wrong? Did someone hurt you? Was it Pietro? I told him to leave you alone!"

The rant stopped mid word when his lip twitched. "No, no one harmed me, but there's something wrong with my body."

"Is it...something the scientists did to you?" Her voice dropped low, terror almost choking the words. What if there were side effects to what had been done to him? Was he dying? Could Hank fix him?

Zen's eyes grew distant as he thought. "Perhaps. I do not know."

"What's happening?"

"For the past few days my penis has become ridged. I do-"

Kitty squawked, a sound akin to a duck being stepped on. In an instant she was on her feet. Her face was so red it looked like the skin might burst into flames. "Kitty?"

It took the small girl three strangled tries to get the words out. "Stay right here, IX, don't move okay? I'll...I'll get someone to help you okay? Don't move!" And then she was gone.

Zen stared at the door, unable to decipher what happened.  _I think there's something wrong with her too._  But, he waited, hoping she would return and stop acting so oddly.

* * *

**BAM, BAM, BAM**

"Ugn, go way," Pyro moaned, dragging a pillow over his head in a vain attempt to make the hideous noise stop.

It didn't.

"Bobby? Get your butt up, I need you!" Kitty's voice roared outside their door, and Pyro whimpered. All he wanted to do was sleep. Was that too much to ask?

Across the room, Bobby flailed up into wakefulness and fell off the bed in a heap of tangled blankets.

"Bobby!"

"Coming, I'm coming damn it. Stop trying to beat the door down." Bobby shouted back.

Lifting the edge of the pillow enough to peak out, Pyro stared at the fallen boy. "Jeeze dude, she isn't even your girlfriend and she has you whipped. Pathetic."

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up asshole, but you know if it was your name she was shrieking, you'd listen too."

Pyro sighed. "True, for such a little thing, Kitty's scary."

Bobby drug his fingers through his hair a couple of times, threw on yesterday's t-shirt and jerked open the door.

"What?" he snapped, ready to be angry before he saw how red Kitty's face was. "Kitty? Are you alright?"

Instead of bursting into tears or something equally girly and expected, she grabbed the front of his shirt and jerked him out into the hallway hard enough to almost make him fall over. "Come on, I need your help."

Five minutes later, they were holed up in another small enclave. "What's going on?" Bobby demanded. His arms were folded over his chest as he stared down at the small red faced girl.

"Look, I have a problem, and you're going to help me work it out Bobby Drake."

_Uh oh, my first and last name_ , he shifted from foot to foot and fought not to break eye contact. "Fine, what do you need me to do?"

"Zen-"

"No way. I'm not helping you tame your pet psycho- Ouch, damn it Kitty, that hurt." He rubbed at his knee where she kicked him.

"Shut up and listen you big idiot. I'm still mad at you for how you treated Zen, and this is your big chance to prove to me and the Professor that you aren't a Neanderthal, that you actually have a brain in that frozen head of yours. So help me Goddess, if you don't do this I will make everything I did to IX look like a cake walk to what I do to you, do you understand Robert? Can you say Pretty in Pink?" Kitty hissed like her namesake, and dread froze Bobby's blood in his veins.

It was difficult to get on Kitty's bad side, but those who did suffered for it. He didn't even want to know what she'd do to him, and he knew the girl could hold a grudge for a long, long time. Bobby didn't want to spend the rest of his school years going from one prank to another. Huffing, he glared at Kitty. "Fine, whatever. What does he need? A body guard?"

"What? That's stupid, he could beat you half to death without breaking a sweat."

"Right."

"Yes right, the only reason he never taught you a real lesson was because Xavier wouldn't let him. If he ever wanted to, he could hurt you but enough of that. That's not the point." She swiped at her messy hair, and Bobby realized she looked as frazzled as he did. "I need you to talk to him. He's having...boy problems and I'm not equipped to handle it."

"Boy problems?" Bobby repeated.

"Bobby, please talk to him, and don't make it worse, okay? Be the guy I always thought you were, and not the jerk you turned into." She stared up at him with wide sapphire eyes, looking at him like he could cure all the world's ills. It was a damned good look.

He sighed. "Fine, I'll talk to him."

"And not ruin it?"

"And not ruin it. I promise."

With a brilliant grin, she flung her arms around his neck and hugged him. "I knew I could trust you with this. Thank you."

"Yeah, whatever. Where is he?"

"This way."

* * *

Zen turned to look at them when they came in. "Kitty?"

"Bobby can answer all your questions. Just...uh...tell him what's wrong, and he'll help you out. I promise. If he acts like a jerk, let me know. Kay? Bye!" With that, she shoved Bobby into the room and slammed the door behind him.

Silence filled the small space like water rushing into an empty vessel. Zen stared at Bobby, his unnerving green eyes not blinking.

Clearing his throat, Bobby stepped warily into the room. "Um, Kitty told me you were having  _boy problems_?" he asked before taking the armchair across from Zen. Some of the stiff tension in Zen's muscles seemed to ease when he sat, and the nagging guilt in the back of Bobby's mind reared its ugly head.  _He thinks I'm going to hurt him._ '\ Even months later, Zen was still tense around all the students who used to bully him.

"So what's wrong?"

"My body is malfunctioning."

Bobby bit his tongue to keep from laughing. "Malfunctioning?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"Three days ago, my penis became ridged. Over the course of the last three days, it has happened four more times. I've also woken up wet from nocturnal ejaculations." All of this was said in a near robotic monotone that made it almost impossible for Bobby to control himself.  _Dear Lord, no wonder Kitty couldn't deal with this._

Forcing down the hysterical laughter that made his abs ache from holding it in, he tried to keep a straight face. "Right. That's not a malfunction. Congratulations, you're a man now."

Zen blinked at him. "I have always been male."

"No, I mean now you're not a kid any more. You're going through puberty."

Instead of asking what puberty was like Bobby expected, Zen shook his head. "I am fully grown. My body went through puberty while I was in the growth chamber."

"Growth chamber?"

"My growth was accelerated. My body is fully grown and functional. What I am experiencing is a malfunction. Not puberty."

Bobby tried to wrap his mind around that before dismissing it as another unexplainable mystery of Zen. "Okay then. So, you've never had an erection before? Do you even know what they are?"

"Yes, an enlarged and rigid state of the penis, typically in sexual excitement."

"Right," Bobby rolled his eyes at the textbook answer. "See, perfectly normal."

Zen's lips twitched into a slight frown. "No. It isn't. I am incapable of experiencing sexual excitement."

It was Bobby's turn to frown. "Incapable? What do you mean?"

"Sexual excitement is a form of emotion, and I have been stripped of emotion. I cannot feel anything. So the rigid state of my penis must be due to some sort of physiological malfunction."

Something close to a whimper escaped Bobby's lips as he raked his fingers through his hair. Talking to Zen was like trying to talk to an android. It was crazy. "Fine, you can't feel anything, but your body is reacting to something. What was happening the first time you 'malfunctioned'." He added air quotes to the last word.

"Pietro duct taped me to the ceiling of the Great Room when Jean entered the room."

Bobby nodded. "Makes sense, she's pretty hot."

Again Zen shook his head. "Logan followed after and grabbed her arm. They spoke. He kissed her."

The blunt words were spoken without inflection, but Bobby saw something flash in Zen's eyes, something that had little to do with androids and everything to do with emotion. "You didn't like him kissing her?"

"No."

"But your body reacted to the sight?"

"Yes."

Closing his eyes, Bobby sighed. Why did he have to play psychologist to the emotionally challenged? This was so unfair. "Were you thinking about Logan the other times your body reacted?"

"Not Logan."

"Jean?"

"No," a hint of emotion flavored the word, and Bobby realized Zen didn't like Jean. He forced his eyes open and looked at the assassin.

"Who?"

"X."

"But X is Logan," Bobby pointed out. Again that slight flash of emotion filled the dead green eyes.

"No, he's not. They are different."

"Alright, so you have feelings for X." Bobby said.

"I do not have feelings."

A frustrated sigh exploded out of Bobby's lips. "You keep saying that, but I don't think it's true."

Zen's face blanked, all the hints and flashes of emotion vanishing. "Emotion is weakness. My Wielder did not want a weapon with such an inherent weakness as his weapon. During my training, my mind was stripped away until nothing remained. They removed my ability to feel emotion, and replaced it with extensive training."

Cold more biting than his mutation slid down his spine at Zen's words. What would that have been like, to lose everything you ever were? He shivered, hating the sudden sympathy he felt for Zen. He could see why Kitty was so protective of him now. He was just so damned pathetic, yet at the same time so tragically terrifying.

"So your ability to feel emotion was taken away from you. Maybe it's starting to come back?"

"That's not possible."

"Why not?"

Silence met the question, and Bobby smiled. Maybe he was getting somewhere. "What did you think when you saw Logan kissing Jean?"

"I wanted to kill her."

Bobby gaped at him before forcing his expression back to normal. The kid was an assassin after all, wanting to kill people for annoying him was a reasonable response. But the cold way he said it forced the teen to remember who and what he was dealing with. It also put the foolishness of his prior behavior into perspective. He'd never thought of himself as a stupid person before, but he couldn't help think it now. How else could he think of himself after realizing he'd been playing pull the tiger's tail for months and was beyond lucky the creature hadn't turned and bitten his face off?

"Right, uh, you aren't actually going to kill her right?" He couldn't help but ask.

"No, I am not permitted to purposefully harm the staff or students."

Bobby nodded, "Moving along. Did you feel any physical reactions to the kiss?"

"Yes. I felt pain in my chest first. Then heat filled me. I thought my power was punishing me, but it remained dormant."

"Hmm. Think back, have you ever had strange physical reactions before during other situations?"

Zen closed his eyes and focused, with his eyes shut, he began speaking. "Yes. When Kitty cries it feels like I have a mild case of food poisoning."

Bobby laughed, making Zen's eyes snap open and lock on him again.

"Sorry. So your stomach hurts when Kitty cries."

"Yes. I don't understand why since it doesn't correlate to anything I might have eaten."

A smile tried to form on Bobby's lips, but he forced it back. "Anything else?"

"During live testing of Weapon X, I was forced to watch but not intervene. One of the obsolete weapons he went up against could breathe fire. The weapon burned X, and I could do nothing to stop it. My chest hurt, even though I had not been wounded during the confrontation."

All the laughter died in Bobby while he listened. Again, reluctant pity filled him. "Did they ever test you?"

"Yes. My testing was done in the compound. I fought several convicts to the death before I fought X."

Unable to help himself, Bobby asked, "Who won?"

"X did. That's the first time he bit me."

"Bit you?"

Instead of answering, IX pulled the sleeve of his shirt down, revealing the old bite marks.

"Shit, that's, how could you let him do that to you?" he asked, revulsion making his stomach tight as he stared at the lacework of scars. So many he couldn't even count them. All old.

But then he saw the way Zen's fingers stroked over the mark. "Zen?" He whispered, trying to understand the boy he'd blindly hated for so long.

"X is a feral, and he is driven to mark me. It," Zen paused, unable to find the words to explain.

"You like it when he bites you."

"Yes."

Bobby rubbed his temple, wishing the growing headache would go away. To think, he could still be sleeping right now. "Different strokes for different folks I guess," he said, unable to look away from the painful looking scars. He couldn't imagine enjoying that, but the way Zen touched the marks almost made him blush. It reminded him of the way Pyro had stroked a hicky he'd gotten on a date once, only far more intense.

"Okay, I believe they managed to take your emotion away, but I also think that they couldn't get rid of your ability to feel completely. I think that even in the beginning you had some emotion, like how your chest hurt during the testing. What they took away was your mind's ability to process the emotion. So, you only feel the physical effects of the emotion, instead of the whole thing. Make sense?"

Zen nodded, not looking convinced, but willing to listen.

Bobby grinned. "See, I think you've been into X for a long time, and when you saw Logan kissing Jean, you felt jealous. Then you finally realized how much you want X, and now that your mind realizes it, your body is free to react." He spread his hands in a vuala gesture.

"I don't know. If I have always felt this, shouldn't my body have reacted before?"

"Not necessarily. It probably took a while for the emotions to reconnect in your brain," Bobby said. "But, if something is malfunctioning, I'm sure Beast can take care of it."

An odd look slipped over Zen's face, like a cloud passing over the moon and was gone. "Perhaps you're right," he conceded.

"Great, now that that's settled, I'm going back to sleep. Next time you have a freak out, wait until noon, alright?"

"I will."

Bobby grinned, and then shook his head. For a second, he'd almost forgotten who he was talking too.

* * *

_~Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry~_

* * *

"— _even more work for me! Mopping all night, like I haven't got enough to do! No, this is the final straw, I'm going to Dumbledore—"_

The enraged voice drew Hermione out of her thoughts and paused her feet on the staircase, out of sight. Sharp foot falls marched down the hall away from her. Curiosity touched her, drawing her out of her despair as she rounded the corner to find a small lake of water covering the hallway outside of Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.

Without Filch's shrill voice echoing up and down the stone corridor, she could hear the higher wail of Myrtle.  _I may have lost my arm to the school…and my family, but at least I'm still alive_ , she thought again pushing away the painful memories of her parents' divorce. Her mom never forgave her dad for the car accident, and the curse Professor McGonagall put on her last year with that lying contract kept her from telling them the truth.

Now there was a monster roaming the so called safest school in the world, petrifying muggleborns, and she couldn't bring herself to care. Not when everything in her world had fallen to pieces.

Still, curiosity nagged at her, and instead of going back to her dorm room, she pushed open the door. "Myrtle?" she called out, having to raise her voice to be heard over the crying ghost.

She appeared to be hiding in her usual toilet, though it was hard to tell since the candles had been extinguished in the rush of water that left the walls, floor and ceiling soaked.

"Who's there?" Myrtle sobbed. "Come to throw something else at me?" The sob turned into a shrill scream of outrage as another gout of water rushed out of the toilet.

"No, I would never throw things at you. Why would I?" There were students who would throw things at her to amuse themselves, like Ron and his gang, but not her.

"Don't ask me" Myrtle shouted as she geysered up from the toilet. "Here I am, minding my own business, and someone thinks it's funny to throw a book at me…"

"I'm sorry to hear that. Did you see who it was?" she asked.

"I don't know. I was just sitting in the U-bend, thinking about death, and it fell right through the top of my head," Myrtle confided. "It's over there, it got washed out…"

Hermione looked under the sink where Myrtle pointed. There she found a small thin book with a sopping wet cover laying in a pool of toilet water. Taking out her wand, she muttered a spell to banish the water and glared halfheartedly at the stubborn puddle. Before she'd lost her arm, magic had come easy to her. It seemed like every spell she tried was a breeze. Well, maybe it had taken some time to master them, but nothing like this. Now she had to struggle to get even the first year spells to work right.

She hated the look in her Professors' eyes whenever a spell failed. It wasn't an angry look, that would have been better. Instead it was a mingled thing of guilt and pity. Every time she saw it, she wanted to shout at them not to look at her, to stop making it worse. But she never did, and probably never would.

Instead, like in class, she took a deep breath and tried the spell again. Slowly, the puddle dried, along with the small book.

Hermione slid her wand back into her pocket before she reached out to open the cover of the book with her wooden hand. The sight of the false limb no longer disgusted her, but it would never compare to her real one.

A quick glance revealed the empty pages of a diary belonging to T. M. Riddle. The faded cover showed the book to be fifty years old.  _I should give it to one of the professors._

No. Hermione stomped down on the instinctual thought as if it were a cockroach that tried to scurry over the toe of her shoe. They couldn't be trusted. Not with this, not with anything. Resolve stiffened her spine, and she shoved the tiny book down to the very bottom of her book bag.

And there, she forgot about it.


	29. Two Steps Forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're moving on to the next arc. This arc is going to encompass X-men II. It will also take inspiration from the novel: X-Men 2 by Chris Claremont.
> 
> I will be taking November and maybe December off due to NaNoWriMo. In order to get into mental shape for the madness of November, I'm going to write 2k words on this story every day of October. So expect to get a whole bunch of chapters as an apology in advance. So be kind and leave me lots of reviews!
> 
> If any of my readers want to join me in this insane venture, my user name on the NaNo site is Dana M. I'll be the first one that comes up in a search – the one with the snow leopard photo, from Lincoln Nebraska and the quote "I was alone with all that could happen." Become my writing Buddy! I'd love to walk the path with some of you.

"Mutants. Since the birth of their existence, they have been regarded with fear, suspicion, and hatred. Across the planet, debate rages: Are mutants the next link in the evolutionary chain…or simply a new species of humanity, fighting for their share of the world? Either way, one fact has been proven: Sharing the world has never been humanity's defining attribute."

\- Charles Xavier

* * *

Zen stared unblinking at the thick length of flesh. Anyone else would have been glaring at this point, but he only had a look of mild dismay on his face. It had been stiff for three hours, and showed no sign of returning to its flaccid state. His gaze darted to the clock, 11:58. Two more minutes. He didn't pace the small cell, instead he lay on his back, waiting.

It had been a little over a week since his talk with Bobby. In that time, his penis continued to behave strangely, and he had to wonder of the other boy might not have been lying to him. How could anyone put up with such nonsense? Was he supposed to believe that the other males were wandering around the school with this  _problem?_

Then again, he knew Kitty well, and he had an idea of what she might do to the ice mutant if Bobby mislead him. His cock throbbed relentlessly, and he poked it, wishing it would return to what it had been, a method of urination and nothing more.

12:00. Zen dressed, and had to fight to get his uncooperative body into the pants.

* * *

"Come on, tell me. What did Kitty want last week? You know you want to tell," Pyro cajoled as they walked down the hall, headed to the dining hall for a late, late breakfast.

Bobby scowled at him, almost ready to tell to get the bastard off his back. "I already told you, you don't want to know. Hell, I don't want to know. I think I'm scarred for life."

"Dude, you can't say something like that and not share," Pyro cried.

He expected another snarky reply, but only silence met his ears. Looking to his left, Pyro froze. "Bobby?" The hall was empty accept for him. "What the hell?"

* * *

Bobby landed on his hands and knees with a jarring thump. If he'd had anything in his stomach, it would have come spewing out his mouth at this point. Thankfully, whatever happened hadn't waited until after he'd had breakfast.

Swallowing the saliva coating his mouth, Bobby glanced around and found himself eye level with Zen's groin. Zen's…excited groin.  _Dear God, I'm sorry for my behavior, but please, haven't I suffered enough?_ Apparently God wasn't in a forgiving mood today, and instead of magically transporting him back to Pyro, he was stuck staring and wishing this wasn't happening.

"Seriously?" Bobby whined.

"It is one minute past noon."

For a second, he had no idea what the tiny assassin was talking about. Then it clicked.  _Well, at least he didn't drag me out of bed for this._ Bobby staggered to his feet, even though it made his stomach give another violent lurch, and he wondered if he wasn't going to throw up after all. Finally, it settled and he glared at Zen.

"Did you have to kidnap me?"

"It was the easiest way to secure your aid."

"Right." Bobby's eyes drifted around the room. It was one of the underground cells, but the mismatched furniture made it feel less like a cage. Still, his skin crawled when he realized the door was shut. "So, ah, what seems to be the problem?" he asked, not wanting to try the door. If it was locked, he might lose it. He'd pretend everything was all right, and it would be. Right. Sure. Of course it would.

"It won't go away."

Bobby imagined he could hear the frustration Zen must be feeling in those emotionless words. And then he realized what the short teen said.  _No, can't it be someone else's turn? Let Pyro tell Zen about masturbation! This is so not fair._

He rubbed his eyes, fighting the urge to scream at the brat to go to one of the professors. Let Scott deal with this insanity. Then Kitty's face, a mixture of rage and mischievousness flashed in his mind like a lightbulb exploding. No, pissing her off by telling Zen where to shove it wouldn't end well for him. Not that he could see any way for this situation to end well.

With an exasperated sigh, Bobby spoke. "Sometimes it needs a little help."

Zen blinked at him with that idiotic look of confusion, making Bobby want to shout at him to figure it out himself. Hell, the rest of them had, why couldn't he? Then again, his idea of figuring it out himself would probably be to cut the damned thing off. Then Bobby would be blamed for the act of self-mutilation.

Damn it all.

Heat burned in his cheeks, but he forced himself to start. "Okay, do you know what masturbation is?"

Zen was silent for a few seconds as he consulted his linguistic memory. "Yes. It is the stimulation or manipulation of one's own genitals, especially to orgasm; sexual self-gratification."

It was Bobby's turn to blink at him. "How do you do that?"

"What?"

"Pop off with dictionary definitions of words. Did you memorize the whole stupid book?"

A false frown slid over Zen's face, making Bobby's shoulders twitch. He wasn't sure what was worse, when Zen was blank, or when he played human. He couldn't put his finger on it, but all the fake reactions felt off to him. It was sort of like watching those movies where they computer generate people. The closer to realistic they got, the creepier they became because there was no one thing you could point at and say, "That's it, that's what's fake."

"One of my first memories was of language being uploaded into my mind. It was a painful process, but it allows me to recall the definitions of every word that was integrated," Zen confessed.

"Right," Bobby said in a deadpan voice that could almost match Zen's for blandness, while inside he shoved that little tidbit of horror away. He did  _not_  want to know more about how the short killer was tormented before he came to them. No thanks, he didn't need to shovel any more guilt into his mind over his past behavior.

"What it doesn't tell me, is how to stimulate or manipulate my genitals."

_Oh God no, will this day ever be over? I should have stayed in bed._ Bobby was beginning to worry that he would pass out from blood loss due to how badly he was blushing at this point. He was not going to teach Zen how to masturbate. Nope, wasn't going to happen. Never.

Without a word, Bobby stalked past Zen and grabbed the handle to the door. His shoulder was almost wrenched out of the socket when he pulled and nothing happened. Of course it would be locked. Why not? That was the shitty sort of day he was having.

"Let me out," Bobby said through gritted teeth to keep himself from turning and punching Zen in the face. That would distract the little shit from his boner. Only the knowledge that Zen might hit him back kept him from attacking. He didn't want to be at the assassin's mercy while locked in a cell.

"No."

"No?"

"I need your help."

Bobby spun and glared at Zen. "Damn it, can't you figure out masturbation like every other kid?"

"No."

"Why the fuck not!" He all but screamed. The room felt like a cell now. Were the walls a little bit closer? His blue eyes darted around the room, studying the small neatly made bed, the desk where each item was placed in perfect position, the shut drawers, and realized how clean the room was. It didn't look like a teenaged boy lived here. Even though everything was picture neat, Bobby noticed how worn the objects were. The books were all damaged to some degree, the bedding looked like it had been good five years ago, and the furniture had the feel of stuff picked up on the side of the road when other people were finished with it.

"Because it is more expedient for you to teach me than for me to waste time with experimentation," Zen explained. And then, to Bobby's absolute horror, Zen began taking off his clothes.

He was so shocked, he couldn't even speak as the small assassin stripped, folded each item, and put it on the desk chair.  _This can't be happening. Not at all. This is an extremely vivid nightmare, and soon I'll wake up and wonder what's wrong with me to cause me to dream such awful things._ Without thinking, his hand came up and pinched his arm. Pain spiked through him, and he almost whimpered. Not a nightmare then. Damn.

"Now what?" Zen's dull voice cut through Bobby's mental breakdown, bringing him back to the problem at hand.

Reluctantly, he looked at the boy.  _Not a boy, a man._ Without his clothes on, Bobby could see the defined muscle, still slender but strong looking. Even though he would never admit this out loud, he felt jealousy flare when he saw Zen had a perfect triangle of black chest hair. More than the tiny thatch of blondish curls he sported. Almost against his will, his eyes trailed down Zen's body to the raging hard-on standing at attention between his legs. There was a full complement of dark hair here as well.

"Now?" his voice came out an unmanly squeak. Zen gave him a look that made him clear his throat. "Er, right. Now. Uh lay down on the bed, on your back."  _This can't be happening_ , his mind screamed, but it was. Dear God it was.  _Best to get it over quickly, then I can leave and pretend this never happened._

Zen followed Bobby's direction, stretching out on the bed and staring at the bobbing organ that started this whole mess.

Still blushing, Bobby looked at the wall and not the horny assassin on the bed.  _It'll all be over soon, just tell him what he needs to know, and then you can leave, you can do this Bobby._ "Okay, so grab…er… _it_ …in your fist and move your hand up and down the shaft." Bobby wondered if this was what it was like being a porn director. If so, he had no idea how anyone had ever made a single movie. This had to be a new level beyond awkward.

It got worse. Even not looking, Bobby could hear what Zen was doing, and worse, he could hear that he was doing it wrong. Damn it. Forcing himself to look, he almost winced at the furious way Zen was throttling his cock. "Stop," Bobby choked out.

Thankfully, the idiot hadn't flayed any of the skin off in the first experiment. Again those empty green eyes locked on his, waiting…waiting.

Bobby crossed his arms and sighed. "Look, your cock isn't an enemy you're trying to strangle alright? I mean, did that feel good?"

"No."

It took a Herculean effort for Bobby not to rip his own hair out at the bland word. "Then why didn't you stop?"

Zen blinked at him. "I didn't know it was supposed to feel good."

_Did I slip into the Twilight Zone? Is that what happened?_ "Go back to your definition. What part of self-gratification did you miss?"

"I would be grateful for my penis to stop being hard."

Bobby had nothing to say to that, so he ignored it to preserve his sanity. "The whole point of this exercise is to have an orgasm, and to feel good. So if you're ever doing something and it hurts, don't do that."  _Unless you're into that sort of thing_ , his mind unhelpfully pointed out. No, he wasn't going to make this whole mess even more complicated. Let someone else talk about fetishes with Zen, he'd stick to the basics.

How did you teach someone how to masturbate? This was a lot trickier than he thought it would be. "Gently grab your cock, and be soft about it. Stroke it up and down, and don't forget the head." There, that sounded reasonable.

Ten minutes later, Bobby felt like he might have better luck bashing his head against the door until it or he broke. He died. That was the only explanation. He was dead, and this was hell. No matter how he worded it, Zen didn't fucking get it, and he still had a hard on.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked, trying for the umpteenth time to help Zen reach orgasm.

"My penis not being hard."

Bobby smacked his forehead, and wondered if he'd have to go get a dirty magazine to make this end. Then again, he only had the female variety, and he had a feeling that wouldn't help Zen's predicament in the slightest.

"Don't think about how much you want it to go away. Think about X. Imagine him doing, uh, whatever he does. Biting you, or whatever." The awkwardness was back, even after what felt like hours of watching Zen's feeble attempts at pleasuring himself.

Zen closed his eyes. Bobby watched his face smooth out, and his strokes smooth out, becoming less jerky. The red angry tip began to ooze pre-cum, and Bobby knew they were making progress. Zen's breath came faster, taking on a ragged edge as his hand sped up. It was oddly entrancing to watch, and Bobby found he couldn't look away.

With a hoarse cry, Zen's body tensed. Thin ropes of pearly liquid shot over the trembling teen's belly as he climaxed. A shuddering sigh escaped the slender teen as all the tension drained out of his body.

"Can I please go now?" Bobby asked, not able to keep the tiny begging note out of his voice.

Zen waved a lazy hand at the door, and Bobby heard the soft click of the lock disengaging. He didn't give Zen the chance to change his mind as he bolted out the door.

* * *

Bobby hadn't appreciated the saying, out of the frying pan and into the fire until the steely hand clamped down on his throat, lifted him bodily off the ground, and slammed him into a wall. Not five minutes after leaving Zen's room, and Bobby had almost made it to the elevator and safety before he was attacked.  _There must be a God_ , Bobby thought,  _and he hates me._

Inhuman eyes blazed an inch from his face as Logan's barrel like chest expanded, drawing in his scent. No, not his scent. Zen's. Zen's pheromone laden scent. Shit.

"Lo-erg," his attempt to speak, to pacify the feral in some way was abruptly cut off along with his air. His dangling legs kicked at Logan's, but the loss of air and his mounting terror stole what little strength he had.

"What did you do?" The words grated out of Logan's throat like boulders falling down the face of a mountain. It sounded like a wolf trying to speak, and almost made Bobby wet himself. He clawed at Logan's hand, desperate now to breathe. To his relief, the grip loosened, giving him enough room to sip air and squeak out.

"N-nothing!"

"Liar," Logan roared, slamming him once against the wall. Not hard enough to do serious damage, but enough to rattle every bone in his body.

"Helped Zen with his problem, if you weren't such an ass, you could have helped instead you big idiot. You're the reason he had a problem in the first place." Bobby's mouth ran away with him in his fear, and his heart crawled down into his stomach. He knew that if it wasn't trapped in its cage of bone and flesh, it would have made a run for it, leaving him to die here alone.  _Dumb ass! Why did you say that? Now he's going to kill you for sure._

Instead, Logan dropped him as if his skin had become too hot to touch. "Go," he snarled, one hand rubbing at the side of his head, attempting to silence the monster in his skull and regain full control. Bobby didn't wait for a second invitation. Once his shoes touched the floor, he ran, nearly falling over in his rush to get away before Logan changed his mind and decided to skewer him.

* * *

Logan locked every muscle in his body to keep from giving chase. In his head, X was roaring, slashing at the bars of his cage and demanding blood. His skin seemed to tingle, burning with the feral monster's fury.

When they'd caught the scent of Zen's arousal, his release, X had broken free. But not completely. For a short time, they'd both been above the surface of his inner mind. X's hand had clamped over Bobby's throat and slammed him into the wall. Logan's voice had spoken, and kept that hand from crushing said throat.

Logan's stomach turned uneasily because he knew why they were able to both act in the same moment. Zen. The scent of their mate on another had undone them both. He raked his fingers through his wild hair, and fought back the urge to chase down the interloper and tear him limb from limb or go to Zen's room and claim him.

He didn't know what the hell Bobby was doing with Zen, but he knew that if he'd smelled the slightest hint of Bobby's own arousal, then he would have killed the brat. That shook him because he knew how Zen would react to him murdering a student. Not good didn't begin to cover it. He wasn't interested in being roasted alive.

But it was more than that, even if Logan was doing his best not to acknowledge it. X wasn't the only one infuriated by the thought of anyone else touching what belonged to him.  _Stop it, you don't even want him. Who's the liar now?_ His teeth ground together so hard he thought they might splinter.

He needed a drink.

* * *

Three hours later, and a blazing hot shower where he scrubbed every inch of his body five times, Bobby was trying to pretend the morning never happened. Thankfully, it was getting colder outside, so no one questioned the cream colored turtleneck he wore to hide the bruises left by Logan's…protest to his interaction with Zen.  _Just my luck to get caught up in the most fucked up lover's triangle ever._

After the morning's adventures, there was something he couldn't get out of his head. And it wasn't the sight of Zen masturbating or Logan's wrathful face. Instead it was the room,  _the cell_ , and how even though everything was kept tidy and in its place, it all had a shabby look about it. A used look. Nothing in the room had been new. Now that he thought about it, when Kitty forced him to talk to Zen he recognized his old pajamas on the lean boy.

All of his clothes were hand-me-downs. They were in reasonable shape, but still, they weren't Zen's. Nothing here was. He hated the thoughts marching through his mind, and wished he could go back to hating the kid. Life was so much easier that way.

Still, the clothes and the cell bothered him. If Zen was supposed to be one of them, shouldn't he have his own clothes? His own belongings? And his own room? Well, he'd have to share a room, they all did. He wasn't sure how the other students might feel having Zen moved up to their living quarters or who would end up housed with him, but he couldn't get the nagging thoughts out of his head.

Bobby sighed, knowing that he couldn't ignore his conscience any longer. How he'd managed to ignore it all those months mystified him, and it had come back with a vengeance after Kitty forced him to see Zen as something more than a monster.

It took a little over an hour to track the small girl down. She wasn't outside, in the library, the dining room, or the game room. He finally found her in the pool, swimming alone. Another twinge of guilt sliced through his heart like an internal papercut.  _She's been alone a lot this year. Zen isn't exactly the best company._

"Hey Kitty?" He cringed a bit at the hesitant sound of his own voice.

Her head whipped around, sending a spray of crystalline droplets flying around her face in an arch of water. "Yeah?" she eyed him before she swam to where he stood. "What's up?"

Bobby rubbed the back of his neck, hesitating, before he plowed on. "Don't you think maybe Zen should get a new wardrobe and move out of his cell? Just a thought. See ya," he bailed, not wanting to be captured by her waterfall of endless questions. He was  _not_  going to tell her about why he had a change of heart or of what he'd been forced to endure today.

* * *

"No," Jean said as her arms folded around her middle, cradling her breasts and hiding the way her fingers dug into her own ribs to keep from shouting.

"Kitty has a good point. We haven't been as welcoming to Zen as we are to any other student who comes to-"

Her green eyes blazed, and for a second, Xavier felt a chill whisper down his spine when he thought he saw something more flare in the depths of her furious gaze. "That's because he didn't come to us like any normal student," she hissed. No longer able to keep still, she began pacing the confines of the room. "Have you honestly forgotten who and what we're dealing with here? He is a trained weapon of the government. He wasn't some kid we recruited off the street, or even reformed from the Brotherhood. He was made to kill mutants!"

"Yes, he was. That's the key word Jean, was. But people can change, and Zen is doing the best he can to break out of the mold he was forced into."

"No he isn't. He's just obedient to you now. He's never tried to disobey or change on his own. If you told him to kill us all tomorrow, he would do it," she shot back, once again pinning him with those poisonous green eyes.

Xavier sighed. "Listen to me Jean. I've tolerated your irrational feelings over this matter long enough. I want you to go with Zen and a few of the children to pick out new clothes. I'll come to ensure nothing goes wrong, but I want you to be there."

"Why?" Jean demanded, hating the note of pleading in her voice. Why wouldn't he allow her to ignore the murderer? It was bad enough that she had to teach him, so why was he forcing her to spend more time with him?

"Because it's necessary. If you're ever going to see him as something more than the image you've built up in your mind, then you'll have to spend time with him."

She hated how reasonable he sounded. Had he forgotten what Zen did to her? To them all? Maybe if it was his mind or flesh that had been carved up like so much meat, he wouldn't be so quick to forgive. Then she remembered how close to death he'd come, and the blood all over his desk when he'd channeled Zen's power. Shame washed through her, forcing the irrational rage down again.

Jean bowed her head. "Alright. We'll go this Saturday."

* * *

_~The White House~_

"We are not enemies, but friends," the soft lyrical words drifted over the small gathering of tourists as she led them through the East Wing entrance of the White House. It was strong enough to carry, but friendly enough to keep the chitchat to a minimum. "We must not be enemies," she repeated as she stopped beneath one of the presidential portraits that lined the smooth walls. "Though passion may have strained, it must not break the bonds of our affection. Abraham Lincoln shared these words in his first inaugural address."

Alicia Vargas smiled at the crowd as she gave her speech. It was one she'd given a thousand times or more, but she had the knack of making it sound fresh. She was a short young woman, with wide doe like eyes, who looked like she would fit in better on a college campus instead of as a tour guide. Her brilliant smile and open face hid the fact that her eyes never stopped tracking over each face of the group as she moved them from area to area, or that her blazer concealed her Sig-Sauer pistol nestled in a snap-draw holder at the small of her back.

Unbeknownst to the tourists, Alicia was Secret Service, just like the intimidating men in black stationed in careful intervals along the walls. When guided tours of the Whitehouse were reinstated, in spite of the ever present threat of terrorism, the Secret Service demanded that their people lead the tours. While they understood the public relations angle of the Presidency, their duty was to protect the man who held the office, and from that perspective, you could never be too careful.

Another disarming smile flashed across her lips. "That quote has always been one of my favorites, and I'd like to believe that with everything that's been going on in the world, those words are more important now than ever before."

"Please, step this way," she said, leading the group toward the security desk. "Due to the President being in residence today, we need to be especially careful. One at a time, please present your photo ID, place all bags and purses on the conveyer belt. Take a bowl and put all items in your pockets into it to be scanned before stepping though the metal detector. Your possessions will be returned to you when you leave. I know it's harsh, but I hope you understand." A few people grumbled under their breath, but one by one, they obeyed.

As the crowd began to thin, a man in the back caught her attention. He was sporting a Red Sox ball cap pulled low over his face. It wasn't that he was doing anything wrong, on the contrary, he seemed perfectly at ease. Perhaps that's what triggered her sense of disquiet. Whenever someone visited the White House, they always got a little fidgety when it came time to go through the metal detectors. They worried about whether or not they had something on them that would make it beep, and get them in trouble.

Unlike the rest of them, Red Sox didn't seem to have a care in the world.

She ushered the first woman through the cage, and thought back on the scene at the Pennsylvania Avenue gate, where the tour had been admitted onto the grounds. Looking the memory over, she was certain Red Sox hadn't been with the group then.

Her gaze snapped back to where he'd been standing. Before she could find him, she heard an odd sound, a soft  _bamf_  of imploding air, like when a balloon pops.

Red Sox was gone.

There is a hall way beginning at the East Wing entrance that runs lengthwise though the heart of the building. When it was constructed, this area was the territory of servants. The rooms here housed the butler's pantries, closets, and other small rooms. In the years between then and now, extensive renovations gobbled up this portion of the White House, transforming the rooms into formal receiving rooms: the China Room, the Roosevelt Room, the Vermeil Room.

None of the rooms were in use that day, which is why Special Agent Donald Karp's eye was drawn to the small flicker of movement that registered on his peripheral vision in one of the doorways.

Turning his head to look, all he saw were shadows. That was one of the unfortunate side effects of low vaulted ceilings. It made the halls a bitch to light properly. Odds were better than fair that nothing was there, but he was bored. As well as the job paid, standing and holding up a wall for long periods of time was tiresome, and he relished the thought of a small break in the dull routine. Once, he'd found a pair of staffers getting hot and heavy in one of the rooms. They'd been lucky not to lose their jobs on the spot, but they should have known better.

When he stepped closer to the door, he realized someone was standing there. It wasn't until the stranger stepped out of the shadows that he was sure he'd seen anyone there at all. Karp's eyes took the shape in with a practiced glance: a lean built male with a stoop-shouldered stance, roughly the same height as him, nondescript clothes and a Red Sox baseball cap. He suppressed a smirk,  _wait until I get ahold of Alicia, I'm going to chew her up one side and down the other for losing one of the tourists._

"Sir? Please come with me, I'll get you back to the group," Karp said, keeping his tone pleasant with that slight undertone of authority that kept civilians in line. Instead of responding the way he expected, the man rounded on him.

Karp gaped, his heart gave a painful throb, begging him to draw his gun or flee. Before him stood a Demon straight out of hell. Its skin was a deep bluish black that seemed to suck in the light around him. The only relief from the darkness was chips of yellow ice that made up his eyes, and the gleaming white fangs.  _Its ears are pointed, Heaven help me,_ his mind yammered. A hand shot out, grabbing Karp's wrist, and he had just enough time to register that the strange appendage had two fingers instead of the normal four.

Then, training beat back the mindless panic. Karp went for his gun. A forked tail whipped out, coiling around his neck and drawing tight to cut off his shout. Before he could finish drawing his weapon, the tail spun him like a living top into the alcove. Blinding pain shot through his skull where it cracked against the arched stone. He didn't feel the sharp chop to the side of his neck that finished the job of rendering him unconscious.

Within seconds, the fight was over. But, those few seconds mattered.

Alicia shot through the East Entrance with her sidearm in hand, ahead of the other agents.

Karps' partner was closer, and he lunged for the intruder, who moved like liquid smoke, tripping the man with a sideways sweep of his legs – discarding his shoes in the process to revealed elongated, articulated feet that bore the same two toed configuration as his hands. Then the intruder leapt across the hall, snatching hold of the falling agent's gun as he went before tossing it clear.

To Alicia's shock, the creature stuck to the wall like some sort of human fly. He was three-quarters upside down. Above the chandeliers, he seemed to almost vanish, his dark skin blending almost perfectly with the shadows.

A snarl, bright white against the darkness, flared before he scuttled faster than her eyes could track towards the executive offices of the West Wing.

Using the small mike clipped to her sleeve, she shouted, "Code Red.  _Code Red_. Perimeter breach at the visitors' checkpoint! Agent Vargas in the Cross Hall, ten meters form the East Entrance. Intruder is hostile, two agents are down. Threat to Breaveheart!"

Unaware of the danger, President George McKenna sat at his desk working the phones with a measure of calm that contained the thinnest thread of threat to a senator vying to make some political ink by throwing a wrench into the latest administration initiative. At heart, the President was a ranching man. He wished now, as he so often did since taking up the position, that he could hog-tie the man and plant his brand on his arrogant posterior. Cows were better than people, in his opinion, at least they knew their place.

The door to his office slammed open, causing a scowl to drag his lips down as Sid Walters, the head of his personal security, stalked into the room. McKenna was about to lose his temper – something which had already become legendary – when he saw the gun in Walters's hand.

"Say again," Walters barked into his com, "How many are there?"

"What the hell—" was all the President managed to say before the words died in his throat. Six more agents flooded the room behind Walters and formed a living shield around his desk. Two of the largest men stood on either side of him. Four were in suits, pistols in hand, but the last two were decked out in full battle gear, flak jackets, helmets, and MP5 submachine guns in hand.

McKenna had been to war. He knew how to felt to be shot, and he drew on that experience now. Whatever was going on, it was real. This wasn't a drill. Something had gone wrong, and his life was in mortal peril. He also knew that the men around him were willing to sacrifice their lives to save his.

A tinny voice near his head demanded his attention, and McKenna realized belatedly that he was still holding the phone. With a calmness he didn't know he possessed, the President lifted the phone to his ear.

"Trent, I apologize. Something's come up and I'm afraid I have to go. I'll call you back when I get the chance." He didn't wait for a reply. Instead, almost as if in a dream, his hand drifted down to put the receiver back in its cradle. Part of him registered how normal his voice had sounded, no fear at all. Another part of him, the analytical part, knew fear would come later.

If there was a later.

His eyes found the photos on his desk, and he took a second to give thanks that the first lady was in San Francisco and the kids were at school. The only one left to stand in harm's way was himself.

"Sid?"

"You'll be fine, sir. You have my word."

The West Wing had become a madhouse as agents attempted to evacuate the presidential staff while simultaneously attempting to hunt down the intruder. There was no pretense of order; that vanished with the first gunshot. Politeness wasn't offered by the guards, and they weren't gentle. Their duty was to get everyone clear as fast as possible. The only flaw was the fact that they were as frightened as the civilians.

The internal surveillance cameras were worthless because their prey moved too fast. Whenever he was spotted, he'd be gone before the info could be relayed to the guards, let alone before they could get to the position indicated.

Toby Vanscoy learned that the hard way. While he was clearing out a suite of offices, shooing strays towards the Press Room since it had a clear rout to the outside, a scream right next to his ear alerted him to the danger.

Training guided his hand, and he took a second to confirm the target and opened fire. His weapon was a Sig-Sauer P220, a damned fine handgun, and like all of the agents in the President's detail, he was expert rated. Still, he emptied all fifteen rounds and not a single shot managed to hit the target.

Instead, the strange creature bounced off the walls, leapt from ceiling to floor, and all but danced around his shots until, so smoothly it appeared choreographed, he launched himself through the air in a summersault that ended with both feet planted in Vanscoy's chest, sending the agent crashing backwards. He was able to keep ahold of his weapon, but the clip he'd been trying to shoot home clattered away.

The momentum of his body came to a crashing halt as he slammed through the set of double doors leading to the main suite of offices.

Like a silent shadow, the intruder followed, straddling Vanscoy's body. A wall of half a dozen agents stood between him and his objective. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw six more flank him, cutting off his retreat. Tiny crimson dots appeared on his torso. All of the agents had good cover, and the enemy was wide open. They would be able to shoot at will without the risk of friendly fire. This room had a drop-ceiling. If he attempted to stick to it like he had the others, the panels would collapse under his weight. They had him.

Surprise flitted across the intruder's face at the sound of Toby' Vansory's uncompromising voice. The man was battered and broken, but he still managed to point his weapon in a two handed grip up at the creature straddling his chest.

"Hands behind your head," Vanscoy shouted. "Get down on your knees! Now!"

" _Right now!"_  echoed the lead agent from the group ahead of them. "No more tricks, or we'll open fire."

Instead of complying, he snarled. Vanscoy's finger squeezed down on the trigger, hammer falling on the empty chamber . . .

. . . and the intruder vanished.

* * *

"Mr. President," Sid snapped, "We have to leave!" It was impossible to get a handle on what was going down outside the Oval Office. The radio was a static jam of too many men trying to give info all at the same time.

A vice like hand grabbed Sid's arm below the shoulder. "We don't know the stich, Sid. We don't know how many there are. We've got a solid defensive position here, and we've got the fire power. We're better off staying here," Hank Cartwright, Sid's deputy, hissed.

Wrath flashed in Sid's eyes. A look from those blazing orbs made Hank jerk his hand away.  _I'm the boss here, I call the plays and there's no damned time for debate,_ Sid thought furiously. Before he could lay into the man for his presumptuousness, both entrances to the Oval Office slammed open, spilling the agents who'd been stationed outside into the room. The men were choking, cloaked in a thick cloud of oily black smoke.

Before the agents in the room could react, the intruder appeared midair in front of Cartwright. With a powerful kick to the chest, the assassin forced Cartwright off his feet and into the agents behind him. His flak jacket and equipment hardly managed to blunt the devastating blow.

Walter's got a shot off, but the target vanished before the bullet found him. Then a midnight black tail wrapped around his neck, and he was flying, tumbling over one of the couches and slamming into the agents who'd fallen in the doorway. Struggling back to his feet, he searched for his lost weapon. Even while his body moved to complete the mission, his mind jabbered again and again:  _He's got a tail! He's got a tail. He's got a fucking_ tail! The creature was right in front of him, as real as the agents on the floor, and he still couldn't believe what his senses were reporting.  _He's got a tail!_

Like a demonic one man army, the intruder appeared, disappeared, only to materialize somewhere else in the office. The confining space in the room gave the assassin the advantage while he tore through the President's bodyguards. It all happened so fast that Walters would have to register events in retrospect. For now, terror flared in his chest when he realized he was too damned slow.

There was nothing he could do to save his President.

Alone now, all the men who'd taken an oath to protect and defend him down, George McKenna sat in his seat of power and stared into the uncompromising and inhuman eyes of his assassin. They were peculiar eyes, not only because they were yellow. Something about them was wrong, drained of life. It was like looking into the eyes of a corpse.

The overhead light glinted off the edge of a dagger. Wrapped around the blade's hilt was a brilliant red ribbon marked with flashes of black. Poised on the edge of the desk, the assassin rose above McKenna. In all his life, he'd never been more afraid, yet at the same time a sense of calm acceptance washed through his being. In that heart stopping calm, a line read long ago drifted across his thoughts: "When the end is all there is, it  _matters_." If this was his end, he would do the office proud.

McKenna almost leapt out of his chair when a gunshot sounded, shattering the unnatural silence that had fallen over the room.

A sharp cry of pain escaped his would be killer, and he dropped the knife to clutch at his shoulder. In a flash, the expression on his face changed. He appeared shaken, confused, and as McKenna watched, the creature's eyes changed. They filled up with life, with personality and awareness.

Absurdly the thought came to McKenna:  _He doesn't know where he is. He doesn't know what's_ happening!

Glancing around, the intruder spotted Alicia Vargas standing in the door way, her gun trained on the assassin's back. Before she could take another shot, the intruder vanished with that curious  _bamf_ , leaving one last plume of darkly swirling smoke behind.

"Sir?" Alicia questioned as she carefully stepped over the unconscious men on the floor to reach him. With every step, her eyes traced restlessly over the room, ready to react. "Are you hurt?"

He ran his hands over his chest, unconsciously straightening his tie. "I'm fine." It was a lie, of course, but it was one they were both willing to accept.

"What the hell was that anyway?" He asked.

"Damned if I know, sir. But I hope it doesn't come back."

"Amen." The knife had landed point first only inches away from where his hand had been, its weight stabbing deep into the smooth wooden desktop. Reaching out, he fingered the ribbon, and noticed that the writing.

Written in sharp black letters was a demand, or perhaps, he thought with a sinking heart, a declaration of war: MUTANT FREEDOM  _NOW!_

* * *

The van was packed with shouting, laughing teens. Their voices were loud enough to drown out the sound of the radio, and Zen felt a headache throb behind his eyes.

"Kitty," he was forced to raise his voice to be heard by the foolish girl sitting next to him. "This isn't necessary. My clothes are fine."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously in her elfish face. "No they're not, you need stuff of your own and the Professor even agrees. He's your boss, so listen to him," she snapped. Over the past two days, he'd tried to talk her and the teachers out of this small slice of madness to no avail. They all insisted that he needed a new wardrobe, even though the clothes he owned were in perfect working condition.

When the word Mall came up, the other students forgot their animosity towards Zen, and leapt at the chance for an outing. Logan was driving the van, since he hadn't been fast enough to get out of the duty. The other adults were taking a separate vehicle to save their hearing and preserve their sanity.

Zen contemplated vanishing back to the mansion. No one would notice him missing, he was sure. They would be too wrapped up in their own mindless excitement to realize they were short one person when they arrived. A hand clamped down on his arm, and Zen wondered if perhaps Kitty wasn't a bit psychic on top of being able to walk through walls. It seemed plosible.

By the time they arrived, Zen was considering the virtue of killing one or two of the students and allowing his own powers to finish him off. He'd never been in the middle of them while they were so excited and chatty. Sure, they'd surrounded him a time or two to attack, but that wasn't the same. There was less talking and more punching in those situations.

Honestly, he'd prefer a good beating to spending one more second in the van with the lot of them.

If Zen thought time spent in the cramped van was bad, it was nothing compared to the nightmare that followed. One of Hell's hotter circles would have to be shopping in the mall with a gaggle of giggling girls who had appalling taste in clothing.

Zen trailed reluctantly behind the girls as they trekked from shop to shop. The other males in the group had peeled away the second they'd entered the mall, leaving Zen to his reluctant fate. Jean and Scott went with that group, leaving Logan and the Professor to chaperone his group.

_It would have been better if Logan went with the other males,_ he decided. It was the closest he'd been to the feral since that strange morning, and he had to fight his own thoughts to keep his body in check. His eyes kept wanting to slide over Logan's clothed body, wanting to recreate the memories of skin beneath his fingertips.

Bobby's lesson served him well, but to Zen's dismay, he'd found that one session did not rid him of his difficulties entirely. Instead, it appeared to be akin to hunger. One could eat a meal and feel stated, but the hunger always returned.

True, old memories kindled in the back of his mind. Nights when he slept on X's strong chest and felt the hard shaft between them, ignored. Now he felt a strange fire, a wanting to return to nights like those and do more than lay passively against the larger man. Zen didn't know what to make of such thoughts.  _It doesn't matter, Logan is not X and he doesn't want such things. Let it go._

He hadn't realized he'd gotten a bit of distance between him and the gossiping females until Kitty stopped and caught hold of his arm. "Come on, let's try here." She pulled him into a strange looking store that looked more like a haunted house than a place to procure clothing.

Logan took one look at the place, wrinkled his nose, and opted to stay outside. How he'd gotten roped into this he'd never know. Even X had opted out. After five minutes in the van with the  _children_ X had gone so quiet he'd wondered if the alternate died. A mental prod got a small growl, but nothing more.  _Lucky bastard,_ not even the enticing smell of Zen could draw the alternate closer to the surface after the rabid giggling began.

In a way, it was refreshing. At least there was something in the world his crazy alternate feared. Teenaged girls, who knew.

Thinking about the idiotic females and his crazed alter kept him from dwelling on Zen. The blank faced teen gave no outward indication that he was distressed, but Logan could smell his displeasure. He could also smell the mouthwatering aroma of his heightened hormones.

The scent tantalized him, filling his mind with all the naughty things he wanted to do to the smaller mutant.

Zen was utterly uninterested in all the clothing choses the girls presented him with, but there were a few tight pairs of pants Logan wished they would have talked Zen into trying on. Then again, maybe it was better that they didn't. His control only went so far.

It was only then he realized the Professor was looking at him, suppressed laughter twinkling in his eyes.

"I see how it is, perverted old man," Logan groused.

Xavier laughed out loud. "I can't help it when you shout your thoughts, Logan. You're one of the clearest projectors I've ever met."

"So gland I can amuse you."

"Hmm, yes. The little chase between you two is most amusing."

Logan glared. "There's nothing between us."

Xavier snorted, "If you insist. You certainly take stubborn to a whole new level."

"Shouldn't you be trying to keep the students from dating grown men?" Logan shot back, trying to hide his discomfort with the turn the conversation had taken.

Folding his hands in his lap, Xavier gave Logan a serious look. "If you were interested in, say, Kitty, then I'd put a stop to it, but you and I both know that Zen isn't like the other children. He's not a child in any sense of the word." Now the previous laughter was gone, replaced with a sorrow so great Logan could almost reach out and touch it.  _It would feel like raw wool, itchy, insubstantial yet still able to smother you._ "I'm afraid Zen's never been a child," Xavier confessed. In all the teen's blood soaked memories, there hadn't been a single moment of light hearted fun. There was only death.

Logan grunted and turned away. Whisky colored eyes tracked over the crowd. "I hope you don't run forever. Zen deserves a chance at happiness, and so do you," Xavier said. He ignored the way Logan's shoulders stiffened, and turned his chair towards the store. Best to check on the children and make sure Zen wasn't being harassed too badly.

"Come on, pleaseeee," Kitty was holding up a silk button down shirt emblazed with a red dragon. The back ground was made up of an endless twisting sea of blue.

"No."

"Why not?" She all but wailed. They'd been at the mall for almost two hours and he'd rejected every single thing they'd offered him.

"Because it is too bright."  _That shirt would make me stand out._

Xavier clucked his tongue. "You should try it on. I believe it would suit you." Silence met the quite words as Zen turned his cool gaze back to the shirt. Even though it wasn't a command, he felt the instinctual need to obey. On top of that, he felt that need conflict with his earlier training not to draw attention to himself. Though he couldn't do anything about his strange eyes, the rest of him could blend well.

This whole situation rubbed him the wrong way. Before, his clothing had been chosen for him. Zen was never forced to go to a store to find clothes for himself. When the girls started pushing items at him, he'd rejected most out of hand. The few he deemed acceptable were promptly rejected when he realized that they wanted him to strip here, in the mall, and put the strange clothing on.

Taking off his clothes in a tiny cubicle made the skin along his spine itch at the vulnerability such an act would require.

He looked from the blindingly bright shirt, to Xavier, and back again. Zen's lips tilted up into a false smile that didn't touch his eyes.

Kitty squealed at the sight of the fake smile, even though she knew it wasn't real. What mattered was what it meant.

She won.

Holding the shirt out, her heart danced in her slender chest when he plucked it from her hand. Kitty loved winning, and it was so difficult to win against Zen that even this small victory was savored. "Go on, you have to try it on," she chirped.

The fake smile vanished like the last snow under an early spring sun. "Can't we purchase this and leave? Why do I have to put it on?"

Kitty's eyes rolled so hard she saw little flares of white. "Cuz if you don't, it won't fit," she said, as if this were a magical law of the universe. Kitty's First Law of Shopping: Clothes that aren't tried on can't possibly ever fit right.

What came next strained Xavier's ability to keep from laughing. Kitty, along with her friends surrounded the bewildered assassin and shepherded him over to the changing rooms. In his mind's eye, he could picture a small herd of kittens bullying a Doberman pincher into going the way they wanted it to.

Zen's weak protests were ignored as he was pushed into one of the small rooms. When the door clacked shut behind him, it sounded akin to his cell door slamming shut after a harsh punishment.  _Why are they doing this to me? My clothes are fine._

Straightening his spine, Zen jerked off his shirt and gave in to the inevitable.

The next several hours taught him a valuable lesson. Defeat begins with a single capitulation. Even though he still ignored the offerings of the other females, he found it increasingly difficult to deny Kitty. The girl was more tenacious than a honey badger. Every time he turned around, she was there with another arm load of clothing for him to try on.

It didn't help that Logan found the whole mess amusing, though around the five hour mark even his mild amusement had flagged into a kind of stupor that only men and small children experience when confined in a mall for too many hours with the women in their lives.

A hand touched his shoulder, drawing his attention away from the chattering females pawing through racks of clothing.

Zen turned his head, and found Rogue at his side. A light blush filled her cheeks when he looked at her and instead of speaking, she held up a dark blue, button down shirt. "I thought this might be a bit more of your style?" she offered. At least it wasn't some eye smarting color and didn't have cartoons splashed across the front.

Reaching out, he accepted her offering. All of the fake smiles and fake emotion had dwindled away during the never ending trek through endless clothing stores but now he forced his lips up again in a poor approximation.

Rogue ducked her head a bit before offering a shy smile back. When Kitty told her about the trip, at first she'd been reluctant to go, but then she realized maybe this would be a chance to take a few steps in the right direction. Perhaps she'd be able to make up for her bad behavior and begin to build some sort of friendship with the quiet mutant.

"I, well," she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and fought to keep her eyes on his empty face.  _Even when he's trying to be normal, he's still pretty creepy_ , she thought then frowned. At least he was trying. What more could anyone ask? Perhaps it was like a snake attempting to be a bird, impossible.

Thinking it over, she began to gain a small glimmer of understanding. What must all this be like for Zen? How would it be to wake up powerless in a completely different world? Though they were still on earth, it had to be a different world for him. You couldn't go from black ops super assassin to…bullied school kid and not think you've sidestepped into some other reality. And yet, he never complained. He never broke down or acted in any way like this was all alien to him.

For the longest time, she couldn't see past what he used to do. In her mind, he was like a man eating tiger, not something that could be reformed. It was that old adage, once they tasted human blood, it was all over. They got a taste for it, and never stopped hunting humans.

Instead, he hadn't acted out after the Professor fixed him. The thought made her cringe slightly. Fix him, as if he were a broken toy, and now he'd become a good little boy.

Too good really. Too perfect. It was unreal in her opinion. Anyone else would have lashed out at them, and she thought that might have been why things got so out of hand. Like children of all ages around the world, they'd been testing their boundaries, waiting to see at which point they'd be put in their place. It was stupid, beyond stupid, yet it was the same urge that caused small children to walk towards busy streets, attempt to touch fire, and reach out to pet the growling dog. Even though on one level it was self-destructive, it was still a necessary part of being a foolish young thing.

Unfortunately, Zen never pushed back. He never even asked them to stop. So they'd kept pushing until things came to a head, and Trowa, Zen, and the Professor almost died because of their stupidity. Rogue swallowed and almost choked on the bitter taste of shame. Before Zen came, she'd thought herself a reasonable person, but perhaps no teenager was reasonable all the time. Or even most of the time.

She waved the distracting thoughts away. "Zen?"

"Yes?" Even now his tone was bland, empty of everything. Any other boy would have put a stop to their fun hours ago. In fact, the other boys hadn't even come with them, protesting before the shopping even began. They were probably hanging out at the food court, or in the arcade. Instead, Zen let them lead him from store to store as if he didn't have the right to say he didn't want to shop any more. Though it was amusing to see Logan carrying all the bags. Any time the large feral began to grumble, Zen shot him a look that shut the bigger man up before he could utter a single word.

"I'm sorry. You know, for before." Heat burned along the skin of her face, but some of the weight in her chest eased after she got the words out. Her behavior hadn't been as bad as the rest, but she hadn't stood up for him or anything either. And then there was the fact that she'd sort of taken advantage of him after she'd attempted to drain him, only to find he couldn't be drained. The blush burned hotter at the memory.

Zen blinked at the red faced girl fidgeting in front of him. The headache was almost blinding now, but he soldiered on, knowing Kitty wasn't done with him yet. Rouge was the first of the girls to talk to him directly, so he forced his lips back into a smile in an attempt to put her at ease. "I accept your apology," he replied to her clumsy words.

A brilliant smile flashed across her lips. "Really? I mean, that's great. Um, I'll try to get Kitty to pick more clothes you'd like." Then she was off, joining the others and subtly directing Kitty towards outfits that were similar to the clothes he'd chosen for himself from the castoffs.

* * *

"Do you think Zen's snapped and killed them all yet?" Pyro wondered out loud as they walked back towards the food court for more fuel.

Bobby snorted, "I think I would have, if I was in his shoes." He'd done his best to forget all about the two traumatizing conversations he'd had with Zen, and hadn't told Pyro about either of them. The bruises around his throat had turned that gross color between green and yellow, and he thought he'd be able to put away the turtle necks in another few days. Thank God, wearing them always made him feel like he was being strangled by a weak poltergeist. The only reason he had the awful things was because his mother thought they made him look sophisticated and he couldn't bring himself to throw them away.

The sound of Pyro's lighter snapping open and shut brought his attention back to his roommate. "I wonder why he hasn't told them off yet, I mean, no way would I put up with playing mannequin for the girls for," he checked his watch and whistled, "seven hours. Holy crap, I can't believe the Professor hasn't put an end to it yet."

Pyro snorted. "Nah, I'm beginning to wonder if it's some sort of weird mental experiment. You know, sort of like playing chicken. Maybe he's trying to find Zen's breaking point." He slid his lighter away and almost felt pity for the little assassin. He would have cried uncle hours ago. Hell, he was almost ready to call uncle now. His feet hurt and he still had a pile of homework he had to get done today. When he'd agreed to this little adventure, he hadn't thought it would take all damned day.

In truth, he wasn't sure why he'd agreed to tag along. Unlike the rest of the school, he still thought Zen was an ass, and didn't feel bad for the crap he and Bobby had done to him. It was all in good fun anyway, and it wasn't like they'd ever really hurt him.

"Come on, I'm sick of this shit. If Zen won't wave the white flag, I guess we'll have to go in and save his stupid ass."

Bobby's eyes widened. "Do you really want to get between Kitty and shopping?" he gasped, before laughing. It was dangerous, sure, but maybe it was time someone reined in the tiny girl. She had most of the staff wrapped around her little finger in a way he never quite understood. Maybe it was because she was short. She could still pull of the 'Oh I'm such a cute little girl' look that made adults melt, coo, and give in.

_If only they knew the temper those wide innocent eyes hid._ Well, the Professor probably knew her temper. He could read her thoughts after all, but Bobby suspected that knowing and  _knowing_  were two different things.

It was one thing to be told that the kitten's claws were sharp. It was quite another to have that same kitten latch on to your scalp with all four paws and dig in. For all her hot temper, Kitty wasn't the sort to directly challenge authority like Pyro or some of the other students. She'd never pull her ticks on one of the teachers, let alone the Professor.

But, the other students were fair game, especially if they'd ruffled her fur the wrong way. Then again, there were times when she'd attack for no particular reason. All in all, her namesake was perfect for her. She was a spitting little cat and it seemed like that would never change.

_Though, with Zen, she's turned more into a mother tiger than anything,_  he mused while they ambled through the crowded hallways. He still remembered the slap she'd dealt him that day when she'd been hurt by one of Zen's bullies. Even now, he couldn't believe how furious she'd been with him. Back then, everything was simpler. Zen was an enemy that had to be driven out, and once he was gone, everything would return to normal.

Only now he realized that there was no such thing as normal, and even if there was, maybe normal was overrated.

* * *

_. . . so hungry, God I wish she'd jus . . ._

_. . . maybe he'd like this for his bir . . ._

_. . . damn not again, why can't they ever . . ._

_. . . stupid, I hate her I fucking want . . ._

_. . . the green, or the blue? Hm, Heather has one ju . . ._

_. . . why am I here?_

"Jean?"

The mall lights, which had begun to flicker, steadied when Scott's arms slipped around her. Jean buried her face in his chest and shivered, forcing her shields back up to full strength. That last voice caused her to shudder in revulsion. How could her mind betray her like that and reach out towards  _him?_

"You okay?" he whispered into her hair while his hands stroked useless circles over the delicate lines of her back.

Jean's lips pursed in tired frustration. Was she okay? Of course not! Why did people always ask that question when the answer was clearly no? Hate flared inside her, bright and painful as a dropped match and to her inner horror, for just a second, she'd felt her power gathering to lash out at the man holding her.  _Stop it, what's wrong with me?_

"Yeah, just a headache," she said, keeping her face tucked close to his chest to hide her painful confusion.

Instead of accepting the brush off like he normally did, Scott pressed her. "It's not just a headache, is it?"

Jean started to pull away, but his arms tensed enough for her to feel the strength of him. "I wasn't sure how to say this," he stared, and then paused as concern for her fought with his need to bring the problem out into the open so they could deal with it. She was hurting, he knew she was, and it wasn't getting better.

"Look, Jean," he said, "ever since Liberty Island you've been—,"

"Scott," she broke in, but he didn't let her derail the conversation.

"— _different_."

Jean tensed in his grip, but didn't pull away. "My telepathy's been a bit off lately," she admitted. "I can't seem to focus. I can hear everything. It's like one minute I'm standing in a puddle, and the next it's an ocean raging out of control around me."

Scott shook his head, and pushed on, taking advantage in the small gap in her emotional armor. "It's not just that, is it? Before you had difficulty levitating a book across the room. Now when you have nightmares the whole bedroom shakes."

The world around them seemed to fade away on the silence between them. He could feel each heartbeat of that emptiness, and thought she wouldn't fill it.

"The dreams are getting worse," she confided to him. "I keep feeling like something terrible is about to happen." Pressing her face deeper into his chest, she whispered so softly he wasn't sure if he'd heard the words in his mind or his ears, she said, "I don't want to lose you."

Closing his eyes, he pressed his lips to the top of her bowed head. "Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere."

Slowly, some of the tension drained out of her, but only a little. Scott wondered what thoughts were plaguing her. Was it Zen? She'd been the most affected by the assassin, and the emotional scars hadn't healed as cleanly for her as the physical ones had for the rest of them.

"Jeeze guys, I thought you were supposed to be watching us. I could have burned the place down around your ears and you'd never notice," Pyro's voice shattered their tiny bubble of drama as effectively as a kid poking a soap bubble. Scott glared at the boy, not that he could see the glare though Scott's visor, but he liked to think the kid still got the idea when his cocky grin wilted a little around the edges.

But, in true Pyro fashion, he didn't let a little thing like teacher disapproval keep him down for long. "If you two are done groping each other like teenagers, we should go find the others and drag them away from the stores. I'm sure Kitty and Co have used up most of a years-worth of tuition by now."

Jean pulled free of Scott and gave the fire starter a stern look that didn't hide the small smile flirting with the corner of her lips.

Even though she looked perfectly relaxed now, Scott could almost feel the wall coming up between them again. Had it always been there? Perhaps, but he didn't think so. At least, it was never as thick as it was now. No matter how hard he tried to breach it, to help her, she continued pushing him away.

_Maybe it isn't me she wants to let in?_  The thought slid across his mind like a poisonous snail, leaving a trail of slime behind.  _Maybe she wants someone a little more wild, more hairy, more Canadian._ Scott knew Logan had designs on Jean, and he'd seen the way her eyes heated at times when the feral was in the same room.

Clenching his teeth, he banished the thought. They had enough trouble with her powers going out of control. He didn't need to borrow more.

Scott checked his watch and groaned. How had so much time passed? For a second, he felt like a kid again. Procrastination bit him in the rump this morning, and he'd put off grading papers for this afternoon. Now the afternoon was gone, his homework wasn't done, and damn it all he was tired.  _Well, I am the teacher, they can wait an extra day to get their papers back._

"Come on, let's go find the others and get out of here."

* * *

_Don't laugh, don't laugh, don't laugh_. Scott kept up the mantra even as his guts started to hurt from the strain. But the look in Logan's eyes promised a bloody fight if he so much as giggled.

The large feral looked like a walking department store. His arms were so thick with bags that he could barely move them and on his head was a large purple and green striped top hat. In a word, he looked ridiculous.

Even Jean cracked a grin, the expression melted Scott's heart all over again. She was too beautiful for words.

"Cyclops, stop mooning and help me," Logan snarled, he looked like he would snap at any second and start clawing people up.

Swallowing his pride, Scott took hold of his share of the bags. "Damn, how much does one kid need?"

Logan snorted. "One kid, right. If Zen's getting a new wardrobe then why shouldn't they all have a new outfit or two? Or ten."

"Zen! Come on, there's something we  _have_  to do before we go. You'll love it, I promise," Kitty's voice rang out with the same exuberance it started the day with. Scott could see Logan twitch and smirked. He was sure that shrill young voice was like an ice pick to Logan's enhanced hearing. Hell, it hurt his ears sometimes. If only she could learn how to use her inside voice, things would be so much better. But at times like this, Kitty reverted to a toddler mindset and became her own mini tornado, forcing everyone along with her.

Zen appeared at Kitty's side as silent as the wind.  _Has he been there the entire time?_  Scott wondered, testing his memory for the boy. A slight chill cooled his skin when he realized he couldn't recall. It wasn't likely the assassin would wander off, but if he hadn't . . . That meant he'd been there the whole time, and Scott hadn't noticed.

There were times when Scott could forget Zen was anything but an ordinary student, but then moments like this reminded him of what he used to be.  _He could kill you before you knew he stood beside you._ It was scary how well Zen could blend into a group when he wished to.

"What now?" The quiet words held the slightest edge of something. Maybe the unrufflable assassin was wearing down? It was hard to tell, but Scott thought it might be the case.

"Come on." Without the slightest hesitation, Kitty latched on to his arm and began dragging him towards the center of the mall and the large carousel that stood in isolated glory.

Jean's soft laugh brought a smile to Scott's lips. "Come on, I don't want to miss this," she whispered, grabbing on to his arm in a mimicry of Kitty.

* * *

Hours passed with the speed of a glacier in the middle of winter, and Zen's patience was close to breaking.

That first shirt had been some sort of gateway into endless wardrobe changes. Even though he'd been forced into more clothing than he'd ever warn in his life, he couldn't relax during the process. The exposure and being nude in a place where attack could occur at any moment did nothing to ease his nerves.

It didn't help that Kitty refused to listen to him when he informed her, more than once, that he had enough. How many outfits did one person need anyway?

According to Kitty, there was no such thing as too much clothing. It was like having too much money. Impossible.

Now he was lead to a strange contraption whose purpose he couldn't begin to decipher. "What is this?" Zen demanded.

Kitty's wild grin did nothing to set him at ease. "You don't know?"

"If I knew, I wouldn't have asked," he replied flatly.

Kitty stuck her tongue out at him before dragging him over to the ticket stand to buy them both a ticket. The other girls fallowed suit, and to her delight, so did the boys. Only the adults stood off to the side, watching them with indulgent smiles.

"There's no need to be snarky. This is a Marry-Go-Round."

"What is it for?"

"Fun of course!"

Fun, Zen didn't bother questioning her further. He'd learned that when  _fun_  came up, it was often illogical and pointless.

Tickets in hand, they were led onto the platform. "Get on one of the horses," Kitty said when she realized he hadn't mounted one of the electronic creatures.

"Why?" Zen couldn't help but ask. Of all her misguided attempts to engage him in fun activities, this one was perhaps the most perplexing.

"Just do it! The ride's about to start."

Zen sighed and mounted one of the fake, gaudy creatures. True to her word, the ride began. It jerked a little, and the strange music bled into the air around him.

Then the ride began to spin, and the fake horse went up and down. He held on to the golden bar, and waited with waning patience for the foolishness to be over. All around him the teens whooped and cheered. For some reason this strange contraption appeared to bring them joy, though he couldn't understand why. The creature wasn't a comfortable place to sit, and the monotonous motion of the machine did nothing for him.

Instead of smiling, or pretending to enjoy himself, Zen sat blank faced as the ride continued. He'd used up all his acting ability at the start of the day, and he no longer had the energy to pretend. Not even for Kitty. Every few seconds she glanced over at him and pouted at his obvious lack of enjoyment.

The ride slowed before jerking to a stop. "Can we go home now?"

Kitty's mouth opened, but before she could scold him, one of the large screen TV's that sat in the center of a rest area not far from them flickered and changed to an emergency broadcast.

Fox News appeared on the screen with a title banner that seemed to scream the words: MUTANT ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT. Behind the news caster was a live feed of the White House swarmed by agents of every flavor. Mixed in were Marines in full combat gear.

". . . we repeat," the anchor reported, her voice shaking slightly, "the President is unharmed. We are awaiting confirmation from the White House, but our sources have told Fox News that an attempt was made on the President's life less than an hour ago by an assailant who's been identified as a  _mutant!_ "

"I believe it's time to leave." The Professor said, his shoulders stiff with the knowledge that this would change everything.

 


	30. Left Behind

"Those who do not fear the sword they wield, have no right to wield a sword at all." – Tousen Kaname,  _Bleach_

* * *

The average time it took to get from Xavier's School on Graymalkin Lane in the town of Salem Center to the Westbrook Mall runs an hour by Metro North from Grand Central Station, often two in the middle of rush hour.

Taking the lead, Scott made better time than that. After the first round of broadcasting, everyone was glued to their TV's wanting to hear more about the attack which left the roads relatively clear. Logan kept hard on his tail, and if the situation weren't so dire, he would have been tempted to shake him off. Even the feral seemed to know how bad things were, since he didn't attempt to pass Scott.

In the time it took to get to the mansion, the airwaves filled with chatter. No facts had been provided beyond the initial announcement of the attack and that the President had survived. Now every channel featured talking heads spouting wild accusations and endless speculation, all fixated on the unconfirmed reports that the assassin was a mutant. The question on most reporters' lips was whether or not this was a follow up on the recent mutant terrorist attack on the World Unity Conference on Ellis Island. Was this the start of a mutant uprising? Was the U.S.A the only nation attacked?

Each question cascaded over the next, creating a tsunami of rumor. The President's rushed appearance to give a brisk statement on the attack did nothing to stop the media machine. As the endless voices bounced back and forth on a hundred different stations, it seemed to tap into a great reservoir of anxiety the nation felt when it came to mutants. The turbulent waters had been held back by a thin veneer of faith that the government had the problem contained, and perhaps mutants weren't as bad as the talk shows made them out to be. With a single act, the veneer shattered. People around the country and all over the world started venting their fears over the future.

As details about the attack were dumped onto the media firestorm, it caused far greater damage to the national psyche than the Ellis Island incident. Back then, a strange, almost alien machine lit up the sky in waves of strange light. No one understood what was going on, save that the official spokesman said it was dangerous.

This was a man with a knife, who'd waltzed into one of the most secure locations in the world. If a mutant could come a hairs breath away from stabling the President in the heart of his power, then no one was safe.

Ironically, the mutants – students and teachers alike – driving through the wrought-iron gates marking the entrance to Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters felt the same way. Fear permeated the vehicles as uncertainty built in their minds. An uncertain present was giving way to an ominous and threatening future for all mutant kind.

Xavier's ancestors settled this are of Westchester County back when Salem Center was nothing more than a trading post and tavern. They'd claimed a stretch of five-miles along the north shore of Breakstone Lake and never let a single bit of land go. While some generations prospered and others struggled, what began as the wilderness frontier evolved into one of the wealthiest counties in the country. It was home to billionaires, ex-presidents, and a few Stars. But the one constant for the family was that they never sold the land.

When it was first constructed, the mansion was Georgian in style, bosting two stories with pillared porticos that offered a stunning view of the wide expanse of lawn to the lake. After a hundred years, that structure was replaced with a new one. It was a late Victorian stronghold of slate grey stone, which looked as solid and everlasting as the lake itself. In those days, the wealthy built massive homes. Though it was entirely too much for a single family, it became perfect for a boarding school. With wings, battlements, and turrets by the score and a layout so erratic that every new student was regaled by tales of the poor new student who'd gotten lost and was never found again, it made the perfect home for the young mutants.

Now the mansion might have to become their stronghold to weather the coming storm.

* * *

Scott's gaze rested on a holographic image of a man's head hovering at eye level above the small portable projector on the coffee table. The face captured in light was handsome, but darkly so. Like that of a fallen archangel, tempered and shaped by a lifetime of struggle. A face that had witnessed untold horror. Whereas Charles Xavier was bald, Erik Lehnsherr's hair was still a thick mane white, swept back from to reveal the sharp planes of his face. Xavier's smiles were always things of generosity and offered to all, Lehnsherr's were akin to a jackal's toothy grin. While Xavier saw endless possibility in the world around him, Lehnsherr's gaze was jaded. There was no trust in him, and when you looked into that steely gaze you knew there would be no mercy found there. No, he was a man who'd drawn his line in the sand long ago and you stood beside him, or against him.

He was a being of power, and in his own way, he was Xavier's match. As youths, they'd worked together and been friends. In some ways, they still were. Erik held sway over all the forces of magnetism and took the name Magneto to reflect his strength. Scott had seen the charts on Erik's power levels. In the right situation, it was possible Erik Lehnsherr could manipulate the magnetic field of the very planet they stood on.

Before Zen entered their lives, Lehnsherr kidnapped Rogue and used her ability to absorb other mutant's gifts to power his mechanical creation. The machine was designed to alter the DNA structure of humans who came into contact with its radiation in order to force mutation on them. He'd planned to use it on the gathered world leaders during the United Nations conference. It was his hope that if all the leaders were mutants, they would be forced to put mutant kind above humanity.

However, he failed to appreciate the power of his creation, and its dire consequences. The new mutations were unstable, causing the host body to break down. Worse, the waves of radiation would have impacted the majority of the city, contaminating a population of millions.

Scott led the team that stopped Magneto's plan.  _With a little unwanted help from a couple of assassins_ , he amended in his thoughts. Even though he hadn't seen them himself.

The sound of his name brought Scott out of his inner musings when he realized Xavier was talking to him. Shifting mental gears, he allowed the part of his consciousness that kept tabs on the conversation to move back to the forefront of his mind.

"My opinion," Scott said, shrugging his shoulders even though his mind was made up the second he'd heard the reports. "Magneto's behind it."

Before Xavier could defend his long-time friend, Jean spoke up.

"I don't think so," she said while turning her attention back to Xavier.

The Professor nodded in solemn agreement. "It's not that Erik couldn't organize an event like this from his prison cell. No, such an act would be illogical from his point of view. This does nothing to promote mutants, and actually does the opposite. It will create a devastating backlash against mutant kind."

"You mean mutant superiority," Scott countered.

Xavier's eyes closed briefly, "You're correct. If Erik had his way, we would be the dominant species."

"Perhaps that's what he's going for, Professor," Scott pointed out, "I mean it forces all mutants into a corner. It makes us choose sides, no more sitting on the bench, no more equivocating."

"We already know how the Government will respond," Storm's husky voice broke in. "They'll attempt to resurrect the Mutant Registration Act."

"Or worse," Xavier agreed.

"Magneto survived Auschwitz," Scott said, turning the conversation back to the powerful mutant. "Perhaps this is his own attempt at Reichstag Fire. Perhaps his goal is to provoke an extreme response against mutants so we'll have to join him in order to survive. Mutant superiority, Mutant hegemony, guarantees mutant survival."

"Do you honestly believe that, Scott?"

"It doesn't matter what I believe, it's what Magneto believes. That's what matters now. I know you've been friends for a long time, and I know this school was as much his creation as yours, but he's seen—and survived—the worst man can do to one another. I think that's make him willing to do anything,  _anything_ , to ensure it never happens again. If that means burning the world down to save it, he's prepared to do so."

"The White House assassin is the key," Jean said.

Rubbing his chin, Scott nodded. "Agreed. If the Feds had him, they'd have announced it. That means he's on the run."

"Do you think he was working alone?"

"There's only one way to find out," Xavier decided. "We'll have to locate him before the authorities do. Using Cerebro, I've identified his signature and tracked it down to the vicinity of Boston. Jean, Storm I'd—"

"Sir?" Zen's cold voice silenced Xavier. The tone wasn't his normal monotone, there was a hard edge to it the man had only heard in Zen's memories.

"Yes?"

"Allow me to track and eliminate the threat. If we deliver the body to the White House, it will help alleviate the current situation."

Silence met his words as the adults in the room stared at him, not quite believing what he'd proposed. "That's murder," Jean blurted, feeling stupid even as the words flew from her lips. As if an assassin cared one way or the other about murder.

"By killing him, we'll prove to the government that the mutant population is capable of policing its own. The threat will be eliminated, and we can work on repairing the damage from there," Zen pushed.

Xavier studied the short teen, and wondered for the first time if he was simply creating a more adept sociopath. Even now, Zen would kill on command, without remorse for his actions. Then again, he wasn't like most sociopaths. He killed, but not randomly, and he didn't appear to be compelled to murder.

Instead, Zen lacked any moral compass. Worse, he was trained to serve. After months of careful observation, Xavier knew Zen would never be able to function like a normal human. He'd always be driven to find a strong master, and not all masters were as moral as Xavier.

"No."

"Why not?" There was a sharper edge to the words. Jean's weigh shifted forward, and he could feel the low hum of her power shifting under her skin, ready to lash out.

"Because that is not our way."

Instead of accepting the words, Zen spoke again. "A weapon is only as strong as the one who wields it, and it serves no purpose when it is left to rust upon the wall. Why do you refuse to use me?" The words weren't shouted, and didn't feel angry, but Xavier could almost taste the underlying pleading that stirred at the heart of them.

"You aren't a weapon! Damn it, you're just a kid. You shouldn't even be in here, you should be out with the other children," Scott snapped.

Dead green eyes locked on his, and the look in them pinned Scott where he stood. "You don't understand what's going on here. The group I worked for was actively pursuing this eventuality. There are people in high places who will use this incident to further their desire for mutant destruction. If we don't act decisively, it will be too late to act at all."

The words made Jean's skin crawl.  _He knows because he used to be a part of it, he helped destroy his own kind._

"That's enough. We will never achieve the future we seek by spilling blood so callously," Xavier said. This time the note of command in his voice was too strong for Zen to fight, so he bowed his head in submission to Xavier.

Returning his attention to the pair of women, Xavier continued. "Storm, Jean, I'd like you to take the  _Blackbird_ and make contact. Hopefully we'll be able to defuse this bomb before it explodes in our hand."

* * *

Prior to the attack, the President's personal aid would show guests into the Oval Office. Today, that task belonged to a hard-faced Secret Service agent who'd been chosen for both his frightful size and a face that made cold granite look kind.

"Mr. President," the guard rumbled before stepping aside to permit the guest entrance. The new comer was slight compared to the guard, and it took a second for the President to place the bland looking man whose plain brown hair and eyes were as forgettable as a passing cloud.  _That's right Marcus Schmidt, Stryker's replacement._ Stryker's disappearance was still an open investigation, and the President was sorry to have lost the man. He'd been a good adviser, and would have been invaluable for negotiating these new treacherous waters.

"Good afternoon, sir. I came as soon as I heard the news," Schmidt said, his tone smooth as silk with just a touch of that oiliness most politicians left in the air. The man's sharp brown eyes narrowed as he studied the gash on the desk. "It was a lot closer than the media's reporting, wasn't it?"

George McKenna remained silent, waiting for the door to close and the two men to be alone. Or as alone as he could ever be. Two agents flanked either side of the fireplace, and a young woman stood in the corner. She was obviously a secretary, one so quiet and unassuming that she almost blended into the wallpaper. From her position, she had a better view of the room than the two men, which meant she'd be the key player in any combat situation that might arise. The reports he'd read indicated a female agent had shot the mutant, saving the President's life. If Schmidt were a betting man, he'd say she was the one.

With a wave of his hand, McKenna invited Schmidt to take a seat on the couch. As President, he took the chair beside it.

"What do you need, Schmidt." This would be the new replacement's first major act, and McKenna's eyes weighed and measured him, waiting to see if he would prove to be an adequate replacement for Stryker.

Schmidt's eyes cut towards the agents, and he arched a single eyebrow in question. "I'm afraid they're here for the duration," McKenna admitted with a quirk of the lips, attempting to make light of the situation. "In fact, I've had the devil's own time keeping them from posting agents in my own damned bedroom."

Schmidt offered a cool smile at that. "I'm sure your wife is thrilled with that, sir."

"Not so much, which is why they backed down. Her temper is even sharper than mine," his eyes grew serious, and he waited for the man to dispense with the chit-chat and get on with it.

"I require your authority for a special operation, sir."

"Oh? And here I thought you'd come for school reform," McKenna joked.

A coy smirk flitted across Schmidt's lips and was gone so fast the President wondered if he'd imagined it. "I believe that was the top of your schedule for the day, before everything went pear shaped. Though it is interesting you'd mention it."

Before he could continue, a soft knock cut him off. This time, the President's aide nudged the door open. A glance showed McKenna was unsurprised by the interruption.  _So, this private meeting won't be as private as I assumed_ , Schmidt thought, careful to keep the irritation off his face.

The newcomer was instantly recognizable for all the time he spent in front of the camera, first with his own bid for the White House a few years ago, and then for his flip flop on the Mutant issue. Robert Kelly, senator from Massachusetts, still had the ambition to make another attempt, but was young enough to wait, and bide his time. While he waited, he'd begun building a strong activist record in Congress by reaching out to both conservative and liberals with a measure of success that hadn't been seen since the campaign of JFK.

Schmidt studied the man, it seemed like he was in better shape than he used to be. The man had the ill manners to overindulge in almost all areas of his life, and he used to have a real talent for making a custom-tailored wardrobe look rumpled and off the rack. That had all changed since the Liberty Incident. Now the senator's suit fit perfectly, and had a crispness that matched the other two men in the room.

"I'm not sure if the two of you've been officially introduced," McKenna said. "Senator Robert Kelly of Massachusetts, this is Marcus Schmidt—"

"Of No-Name, Nevada," Schmidt interjected.

"Mr. Schmidt," Kelly said, offering his hand.

"Marcus, or Mark if you prefer," Schmidt replied as they shook. Kelly's weight wasn't the only thing that had improved. His grip was stronger too. He used to close his hand around the other person's fingers in a fleeting, weak gesture before letting go. Not anymore, this grip was palm to palm, man to man, strong and secure.

"Mr. President," Kelly acknowledge as he took a seat on the couch, angled in such a way that he would be able to relate to both McKenna and Schmidt without having to move. In his chair, the President was positioned to do the same. Schmidt, on the other hand, was facing the President, and would be forced to turn right to face Kelly, partially turning his back to McKenna. The tactic had been superbly executed, putting Schmidt in an awkward place. Schmidt wasn't pleased with the arrangement, but refused to show it.

"I appreciate your allowing me to attend this meeting," Kelly said.

"Your input is valuable, Robert, as is Marcus's. He's with the . . . intelligence community."

"Which branch?" Kelly challenged.

The President waved it away. "That's not important."

"I'm only asking because I'm a ranking member of the Joint Intelligence Committee, and I—"

"Robert," The name became a warning. "It's not important."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

"As I was saying, Marcus has assumed leadership of a task force that's been dedicated to the study of the Mutant phenomenon for . . . well, before my time in office."

"So I've heard, albeit only as rumors. For a man in such a high position, Marcus, you leave a very small foot print."

Schmidt smirked. "Then I must be slipping, the goal is to leave no footprint at all."

"Your task force is known for questionable methods. I hope with the change of leadership it will be taking a new turn?"

"The work my task force is engaged in is vital Senator, with this incident, wouldn't you agree that knowing as much about mutation of the upmost importance?" Without allowing Kelly to answer, Schmidt continued. "I've observed your career with interest. If I recall correctly, you were a stalwart supporter of the registration act. Yet, your attitude on the mutant problem seems to have taken an abrupt turn recently."

"For the best, I trust."

"Hm, yes. Well I place my trust in God."

"Since Senator Kelly has been at the forefront of  _both_  sides of this issue," the President interjected, "I thought his perspective would be valuable going forward."

"You're the commander in chief, sir," Schmidt said.

"So, what exactly are you proposing, Mr. Schmidt?" Kelly asked, locking eyes with the man.

Schmidt paused, and gave the President a look that clearly said this information was need-to-know only, and that he didn't believe Kelly should be in the know. The look McKenna shot back told Schmidt that he didn't give one whit what he thought on the matter, and to get on with it.

"You spoke about a special operation, Marcus?" prompted McKenna.

Taking a breath, Schmidt nodded, accepting the President's authority. Schmidt opened a slender briefcase and spread a set of glossy surveillance photos on the table, right in front of the President, where he could see them, but Kelly would have to strain to do the same.

"Working with the National Reconnaissance Office, my people were able to gather these images of a mutant training facility right here in the United States."

"How did you develop the information?"

"Discover the installation's existence, you mean? Primarily through the interrogation of one of the terrorist prisoners captured after the Liberty Island incident."

"Erik?" Kelly's sharp voice broke into the conversation. "Erik Lehnsherr?"

"Code-named Magneto, yes," Schmidt replied.

"You have access to him?"

The level of interest Kelly displayed over the information intrigued Schmidt. "Yes. My team developed the technology for his plastic prison when, I might add, Mr. President, your defense department couldn't find room for the allocation in their own budget."

"At the time," McKenna replied, "the need didn't seem pressing."

"Priorities change, I understand. Threats can always be properly identified in hindsight. The greatest challenge presented to any prudent and responsible leader is identifying clear and present dangers to the nation and dealing with them  _before_  they manifest as a threat."

Moving forward, he slid another set of photos onto the table.

"It appears I'm not the only one with access to the prisoner. This man," – he tapped the photo of a bald-headed man seated in a plastic wheelchair – "has been identified as Charles Xavier. He's the leader of the training facility and a known associate of Mr. Lehnsherr. Apparently, Xavier has friends in the Justice Department. Since Lehnsherr's incarceration, he's paid several visits."

Kelly shifted forward so he could get a look at the images.

"What is this place," he asked with cool skepticism.

"Ostensibly, a school," Schmidt replied with a low chuckle. "For 'gifted' youngsters. I suppose that's one way to put it."

Another set of photos was tossed onto the table with a causal flick of the wrist.

"We've retasked a keyhole spy satellite to procure these shots," he said. "I believe you'll agree that the results are worth the expenditure."

Even though the photos had been taken from over two hundred and fifty miles above Manhattan, they held the crisp clarity that only the most advanced technology could produce. The results were as exceptional as they were devastating.

"What is that?" McKenna asked.

"A jet."

McKenna scowled at him. "What kind of jet?"

"We don't know—but as you can see, it comes up out of the basketball court."

The next sequence of images demonstrated just that. The court behind the main house slid apart to allow an elevator platform to rise to the surface from what could only be an underground hanger. When the plane was fully revealed, it was like nothing the President had ever seen before, twin engine, and twin tailed with forward sweeping wings. The jet used vertical thrusters to get air born before shifting to horizontal flight, and was gone from sight in an instant as the flight path and the satellite's orbital track took the objects in opposing directions.

"I've spoken with the Air Force on this matter, and DARPA, they don't even have aircraft with capabilities like this one the drawing board. When I talked to them, they claimed such technology was still in the realm of science fiction. It clearly represents the height of stealth technology as well. Every radar record we could find, military, and civilian, for that time and course, register nothing."

Schmidt waved an elegant hand, encompassing the President and the room. A glance pointed out the bullet holes that had yet to be repaired in the walls.

"You gentlemen ask yourselves: How could this happen?" Then he gave a humorless laugh. "How could it  _not_  happen?"

Kelly snagged one of the shots off the table. "Schmidt, these are  _children._ "

"Indeed. Ripe young minds being indoctrinated, but to what end? Need I remind you of the children dressed as terrorists in the Middle East? This isn't the first time the United States has been forced to contend with child soldiers, Senator."

Flinging the photo back onto the table, Kelly scoffed. "These are American citizens, none of whom – that I'm aware of – have committed any crimes. Or am I mistaken?"

Instead of answering the charge, Schmidt turned his attention back to the President. "Sir, if we'd been permitted to do our jobs prior to the attack—"

"What do you need, Schmidt?" McKenna asked.

"Your authorization, sir."

"To do  _what_  precisely?" Kelly snapped, asking the question he knew the President wouldn't.

Again Schmidt ignored him, the full weight of his gaze remained on McKenna. "Don't misunderstand my objectives, Mr. President. All we wish to accomplish is to ascertain their goals. If they have nothing to hide, then they'll have nothing to fear."

"That's illegal," Kelly countered, attempting to turn the conversation back onto sane ground.

"Not if they're terrorists," Schmidt said, "For over a year now, we've been tracking this particular mutant. His origins are European, but we believe there is an affiliation with this institution."

Reaching into the briefcase, Schmidt withdrew a final damning photograph and handed it to the President.

"This was taken three months ago, sir." When McKenna saw the picture, his choice was made.

The strange creature stared up at him out of the photograph. Humanoid, in that it had a two arm, two leg, central trunk, and bilateral symmetry. The hands and feet were made up of two big digits, skin the color of the sky at midnight with hair like spilled ink. Its gleaming yellow eyes seemed to mock him, along with the sharp white fangs. Pointed ears, and a long pointed tail combined to give the creature a demonic cast. All that was lacking was a pair of wings.  _And his power is almost as good a replacement for those._

"Listen to me, Marcus," McKenna said in a cold tone that promised dire consequences should he deviate the slightest from his wishes. "You enter. You detain. You question. But the last thing I want to hear is that we've spilled the blood of an innocent child, mutant or otherwise, is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

After the meeting concluded, Kelly stalked out after Marcus, catching him in the hallway outside the President's suite of offices. Here, the repairs were almost finished, and the level of armed guards had grown like a bed of mushrooms after a long rain.

"That was a compelling argument, Marcus," he said.

"The evidence speaks for itself, wouldn't you agree?" Schmidt nodded to a beautiful young Asian woman who joined them. Dressed in a well fitted business suit, the newcomer carried herself in a way that made Kelly think,  _Bodyguard._ A pair of light sunglasses hid the color of her eyes, but still allowed them to be seen. "Please allow me to introduce Yuriko Oyama. She's my director of . . . special projects."

Her handshake was brisk, but when Kelly started to let go, she gave a single hard squeeze, showing a flare of dominance. Once free of the slightly crushing grip, Kelly shook his hand out and offered a sheepish smile. "Quite a handshake you have there."

Schmidt and his assistant turned to leave, but Kelly kept pace with them. Finally, he stopped and turned to confront the man.

"Is there something you need, Senator?"

"Yes, I was wondering if it would be possible to arrange a meeting with Erik Lehnsherr?"

Schmidt gave Kelly a frigid smile. "It isn't a petting zoo, Senator. In this conflict, he is the enemy and you are only a spectator. Do us both a favor and stay on the sidelines, all right?"

"Are you trying to turn this into some kind of war?"

Turning his back on the Senator, Schmidt started down the hall again before calling back, "Senator," the way he spoke the word turned it into a profound insult. "It's already a war. The only problem is bleeding hearts like you who refuse to acknowledge it. I hate to bring this conversation to a close, but I'm on a tight schedule, and I must be going. Good day, Senator."

Kelly watched them go, his expression darkening with every step they took. For a second, the iris and pupil of his eye vanished, flashing into chrome yellow, the same shade as the assassin's. Then he blinked, and they returned to their normal shade. No one noticed the momentary lapse.

* * *

Back when the world stood at the brink of nuclear conflict, a command decision was made to create a facility that would survive should the worst happen. This location would be used to house key members of Government so that there would be someone left to pick up the pieces when it was all over.

This location had to be far enough away from all the major targets of such a conflict, yet close enough for a successful evacuation of the President and senior members of both the civilian and military hierarchy to get there before the region was destroyed.

After due consideration, a decision was made: The Appalachian Mountains. It was west of the capital, nestled in the peaks forming one wall of Shenandoah Valley.

It was built along the same lines as its sister facility, the headquarters of the North American Air Defense Command, located at the heart of Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado. By hollowing out the base of the mountain, the stone itself would form a majority of the protection for the people within its cold womb. Inside the hollowed out area, the living spaces were built on massive shock absorbers, guaranteeing survival from all but a direct hit. It had been outfitted with the latest and greatest technological advancements and enough resources to permit a designated number of survivors to live for over a decade underground.

Thankfully, it hadn't been needed.

After the collapse of the Soviet Union, and the dwindling threat of nuclear war, the secret location had gradually become less important. It was considered a relic of a long gone age and most in the government forgot its existence.

Not William Stryker.

The mutant problem consumed his thoughts from the moment his son was diagnosed, and in the years since, he was plagued by a simple question: What to do with mutants if things went bad? Where could the government house criminal mutants?

Mount Haven was Stryker's solution, and Erik Lehnsherr became its first inmate.

For most, William Stryker was missing, presumed dead. But there were those who knew the truth, and since he'd hand crafted this facility, all who worked here were loyal to him. Schmidt was his stalking horse for getting things done, but William was still the hand that pulled the strings from the shadows.

Moving with the confidence of a King in the heart of his domain, William headed towards the perfect cell for his first captive. It had been shaped entirely of plastic, suspended by pliable plastic cables and beams in a chamber of the mountain that had been roughed out, but never finished. The massive space was over a thousand feet square, buried more than that beneath the mountain's surface. The stone itself was nonferrous, and all the walls of the chamber had been lined with a plastic stronger than steel.

The suspended cage was transparent, as was the furniture. Clothing, sheets, and the few books given to the inmate to read were the only opaque items in the cell.

He was under constant surveillance, and had a continual rotating shift of guards whose orders were absolute. No metal of any kind was permitted into the chamber, let alone the cell itself. But the orders went further than that, all major sources of metal were banned within half a mile of his cell, included but not limited to: vehicles, weapons, and furniture. One of the major side benefits of Magneto's incarceration was a massive improvement in the practical application of plastics.

The inmate's clothing were made out of a hybrid version of paper and cloth that attached with the use of Velcro. One of the conditions of employment was a complimentary trip to the dentist to have all metal filings replaced with porcelian. Those who violated the rules were fired, without exception.

No one knew for sure what the true extent of Lehnsherr's power was, and it was better to error on the side of caution than to allow even the slightest chance of escape.

For all the regulations surrounding the man, he himself didn't look intimidating in the slightest. In person, the face held a dignity and humanity the holographic image Scott observed at Xavier's lacked. A glance revealed both his intelligence and commitment. Lehnsherr was a man whose soul was forged by one of the hottest furnaces human kind had ever crafted. The fierce kilns of Auschwitz claimed the lives of his family and burned away the life he'd known and the one he'd hoped for.

Lehnsherr survived then, and he would survive now. Of that, there was no question.

A low mechanical buzz sounded as the plastic umbilical cord extended to connect his cell to the outer platform. Lehnsherr's gaze remained on the book he'd been reading, T.H. White's,  _The Once and Future King,_ only lifting when he heard the bolts snap into place and the door on his side hiss open.

Slipping the book back onto a plastic table, Lehnsherr's steal gaze locked on the guard. Mitchell Laurio was a cruel man by nature, who'd been chosen after two felony indictments were brushed under the rug, both for brutalizing inmates. The day he started, he'd been informed that the recorders would 'glitch' whenever he entered the cell. His only limits; no breaking bone, no killing the old man. Other than that, Lehnsherr was fair game.

The treatment wasn't new to the prisoner, after all he hadn't even been a teenager yet when he'd received his first beating at the hands of an SS guard. A half smile quirked his lips, he also recalled what he'd done to repay that guard years later.

"Mr. Laurio," he said in a cordial tone, "How long can we keep doing this?"

Laurio gave a savage grin. "How long you in for?"

"Forever."

"Not forever, Mr. Lehnsherr," Stryker said, smiling pleasantly from the walkway before he entered the cell. "Just until I'm satisfied that I've gotten all the information I require."

"Mr. Stryker," again his tone held nothing of his true feelings, matching his relaxed body language. "How kind of you to come calling. Have you come to ensure the taxpayer's dollars are keeping me comfortable?"

"It's simply a matter of the punishment fitting the crime. You know, heads of state look down on being attacked. Many of them wanted you put to death. Without, I might add, the benefit of a trial."

"How fortunate for you that, merely by labeling me a terrorist combatant, the government removed all such pesky legalities."

"The ACLU is still filing briefs on your behalf. You never know, they might find a judge who will accept their writ of habeas corpus."

Lehnsherr knew better. Even if such a judge were found, he'd have an  _accident_  long before a trial could be held. No, he was here until he died. Or found another way. Just like Auschwitz.

"In the meantime . . ."

Lehnsherr fought the instinctual tensing of his muscles when Stryker slid a plastic case from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. The case held a small vial of glowing yellow liquid. Unable to stop himself, the prisoner started up from his seat. Laurio's hand lashed out, expertly applying the billy club to the back of Lehnsherr's legs, forcing the old man to collapse to his knees. A vicious jab to the side made him gasp. Grabbing Lehnsherr's right arm in a hammerlock, Laurio forced the trapped hand up almost to the prisoner's neck. He moved with practiced ease, forcing Lehnsherr's face flat against the table and held it there in a vise grip, turned so that the base of his skull was exposed.

With a grim smile, Stryker eased forward and administered two careful drops of the serum to the circular scar on the back of Lehnsherr's exposed neck.

Slowly, the muscles in the mutant's body became lax, his eyes widened as his pupils dilated to their full extent.

A satisfied grunt escaped Laurio as he yanked the now pliant man up and shoved him back down into his chair. Lehnsherr's face was blank, showing no hint of expression now that the drug was in full effective. Tucking the case back into his pocket, Stryker settled against the corner of the table before reaching down to grab Lehnsherr's chin to tilt his face up. There was no reaction to the gesture.

"Now, Erik – may I call you Erik? Of course I can, thanks to my little serum here, we're the best of friends, right? And friends have no secrets from one another. So while we have this special time together, I'd like to have one final talk about the school you and Charles Xavier built. Especially that wonderful machine you both call Cerebro."

* * *

Pietro's knee went up and down in a soft blur of agitation as he sat in the squishy chair in front of Xavier's desk. The old man wasn't here yet, which only gave him time to think of all the reasons that might have landed him in the Boss Man's office.

It could be because he'd shoved Zen into the pool, only to learn the hard way that the tiny assassin didn't know how to swim. Who knew? What kind of killer didn't know how to swim? It was crazy! And hardly his fault.

Or maybe it was because he'd superglued Zen's backpack to the ground during Jean's class. Not that anyone could  _prove_  he'd done it, but well, the Principal was psychic. He was one of the only ones left who harassed Zen, but it was his sworn duty to do so, even if it meant cleaning out the girls' bathroom every week. His nose wrinkled in utter disgust.

If he'd been thinking about girls in  _that_ way, one stint of bathroom duty would have killed the thoughts cold. Girls were disgusting. Not that boys were better, but still, ick.

The door swished open, and Pietro's spirits sunk deeper. Walking behind the Professor like a faithful guard dog, was the one and only assassin himself.  _Great, just great, another lecture and apologies all around._

It wasn't the first attempt at an intervention the bald Professor had staged between the two, but nothing he or Zen said could ease the hurt of losing his sister. The only thing he had left was the raw hurt, and that was best translated into revenge.

"Good afternoon, Pietro," the Professor said pleasantly. His mild tone made his knee bounce a little faster. It didn't fit with the normal disappointment the man usually sent his way.

"Uh, good afternoon," he repeated dumbly, trying to figure out where this was going.

Wheeling behind the desk, Xavier waved a hand at Zen. "Please take a seat." Like always the short teen obeyed instantly. Pietro snorted under his breath and gave the boy a baleful look. Even though they'd had a few moments of understanding here and there, it wasn't enough to begin shoveling away the mountain of shit that stood between them.

"Now, I've asked you both here to discuss Zen's new living arrangements."

The words sent a lance of ice through Pietro's heart.  _No way, he's absolutely not going to say what I think he's going to say._ Dread laced the thought in delicate lines of frost. Xavier wouldn't do that to him, would he?  _Don't, please don't!_  He thought it as loud as possible at the man, hoping to derail the madness before it left the station.

No such luck. "Since Pietro is the only male student without a roommate, you'll be sharing a room from now on."

Without giving Zen a chance to speak, not that the little freak would do something so crass as question an order, Pietro leapt to his feet. "You can't do this! I hate him and he…well…he's him," he finished lamely, stumbling over the fact that Zen still didn't hate him after all the shit he'd put him through.

"Yes, I'm aware. Sit down Pietro." The speed mutant's legs gave out, and he flopped back into the chair and crossed his arms. "Now I'm more than aware of your animosity, and I appreciate its cause. It's territory we've transverses again and again these past months. However, no punishment seems to be able to curb your bad habit of attacking a fellow student. If it weren't for your shared past, I would have been forced to expel you from the school at this point."

Dred sank claws deep into Pietro's gut at the words. Where would he go if Xavier kicked him out? What would he do? "Look I'm-"

Xavier held up a hand, and the words dried up in Pietro's mouth. "If it were a different situation." He repeated. "The trauma you've suffered has given you leeway in this matter, but even that leeway must give eventually."

"I don't understand, why make us room together then?"

Now something almost devious entered Xavier's gentle smile. "Because you have to sleep sometime, and you have to relax your guard sometime. It will be difficult, but I think that having Zen share your living space will be an adequate deterrent to further torment of him. After all, he is best friends with Kitty, and she'll likely want to visit his room on occasion."

Xavier let the information hang there for a moment while Pietro's face paled dramatically. "I see we have an understanding." Turning his attention to Zen, his smile gentled. "You can move your stuff up out of the basement now."

Zen gave a silent nod, not even sparing the still gaping Pietro a glance as he got up to leave.

"Wait! Can't we talk about this," Pietro's whine cut through the air as the door shut behind Zen.

Walking down the hall, Zen pondered his wielder's sanity. He couldn't comprehend what the man was thinking. He would have preferred remaining in his cell, but he hadn't been given a choice in the matter. Kitty, in true Kitty fashion, tried to help him out by convincing the staff that he needed new clothes and a new place to live, but like the shopping, this backfired spectacularly.  _Now I'll be exposed to my enemy at all times._

Then again, that meant Pietro would be exposed to him at all times. Zen hadn't retaliated against the boy due to the simple fact that he was too fast. He had the reflexes of a cat on crack, and short of killing him, Zen doubted he could stop the youth long enough to administer a proper beating.

Now . . .  _You have to sleep sometime._ Perhaps this would work out in his favor after all.

* * *

Logan stood inside the door to the office and drank in the scents in the room. Zen's heady aroma flirted around him, stiffening his cock instantly.  _Damn it_ , the unrelenting boners were becoming a hassle, and even masturbating did little to relieve the ache. He also caught the faint sullen odor of the snarky little speed demon.

"Ah, there you are." His thoughts were interrupted by Baldy, whose mental dog call brought him here. "Come along."

His lips pulled back in a mock snarl, but Logan followed anyway. There was something about the old man that made a person want to obey.  _No wonder Zen's so entranced._ Then again, Zen would follow anyone who he claimed as master. X growled in the back of his mind, and he could feel the restlessness of the feral. Something about his thought had agitated the beast.

Logan's steps faltered when something like a memory, faint and hard to capture, whispered in the back of his mind. The feel of chains clamped over his flesh, unable to move. And the sharp spike of agony when the scent of Zen's blood spiced the air.

Then it was gone again.

"Logan?" Xavier's voice jerked him back into motion.  _What the hell was that?_  Logan growled in his mind at the beast, but it didn't reply, not even with a snarl.

"Nothing, I'm fine. Where are we going?"

"There's something I'd like you to see," came the vague reply.

Xavier led Logan down into the heart of the complex. He stopped in front of a thick circular doorway that would have been the crowning glory for any major bank. It was twice Logan's height and over three feet thick when it swung open.

Through this strange portal, Logan saw a suspended walkway that lead to a circular platform in what he assumed was the center of the vast open space. He followed the wheelchair bound man out into the empty sphere. Even his advanced senses couldn't find the far wall, or the base or summit.

This room was a psychic clean room. The only thoughts permitted were the ones Charles Xavier sought out himself. Sometimes, he spent time in the room just to take a break from the endless voices that crashed around him day in and day out.

Xavier positioned himself on the central dais and slid a strange skeletal helmet over his bald head.

The whole room was a focusing chamber for Cerebro, a titanic array of sensors, daisy-chained multiprocessors, and resonance amplifiers constructed to magnify Xavier's unparalleled power to Godlike proportions. After adjusting a few dials, he glanced back at the feral, who'd just lit a cigar.

"Logan, my repeated requests about smoking in the mansion notwithstanding, continue smoking that in here . . ."

Sighing, Logan pulled the cigar out of his mouth and studied it. He'd lit it without thinking. His healing factor made little things like cancer obsolete, so he liked to indulge.

The next words weren't spoken out loud, but echoed in his mind: . . .  _and you will spend the rest of your days under the belief that you are a six-year-old girl._

With the thought came an image of Logan in a frilled pink dress, something akin to what Barbie might wear, with layers of silk and crinoline petticoats, an avalanche of bows, ankle socks, and patent-leather shoes.

The low hiss of blades extending whispered through the vast chamber, sliding out of the hand that held the cigar, but Logan made no move to attack.

"I'll have Jean braid your hair," Xavier said as he mentally tweaked the image to match in a way that was so absurdly over the top that Logan couldn't help but give a rough chuckle.

Yes, Xavier probably could impose his psychic will on Logan, but they both knew that it would risk the delicate balance of his mind and X wasn't Zen. He wasn't a creature of obedience, and there would be a dire reckoning for such a violation.

The claws returned to his flesh, they'd been little more than an idle threat anyway, and they both knew that as well. Closing his eyes, he crushed the cigar out on the palm of his hand.

With the flick of a final switch, the chamber began emitting a low grade hum that vibrated deep in Logan's metallic sheathed bones.

"Are you sure I should be in here?" Logan asked, in his mind, X began pacing restlessly, untrusting of the strange sensations going through their flesh.

Instead of replying, the massive door slid shut behind him. "Just . . . don't move."

Instead of obeying, Logan took a few steps closer so that he stood on the platform behind the Professor. A startled gasp escaped him when the fabric of reality seemed to twitch like the hide of a fly bitten horse before dissolving beneath him. For an instant, there was the lurching sensation of falling, like going over the top of the first hill in on a roller-coaster ride.

Then, with another spine jarring jolt, he was stationary again. Only now the space around them had become a giant three-dimensional representation of the world. Scattered over the land masses and studded here and there over the oceans were countless pinpricks of light. They mostly blazed white, but the white was intermixed with specks of red.

"These lights," Xavier said with the same humble tone one would use in a cathedral, "represent the whole of humanity. Every living soul on Earth."

Logan smirked. "Let me guess, we're the red ones."

Like stars winking out at dawn, the white lights faded, leaving the scarlet to blaze alone. "Yes, these represent the mutant population," Xavier replied, impressed with Logan's swift understanding. "Many of them are unaware of what they are, what they'll become. As you can see, we aren't as alone as the media would have us believe."

Logan's stomach gave a protesting lurch when the globe rushed towards them, the focus narrowing down, down, down until they had a bird's-eye view of the northeastern seaboard of the United States. Then most of the tiny lights flickered out, leaving a small scattering whose placement matched up with the school. Along with the dots representing them, there was a thin scarlet line darting from Washington to Boston.

"That," Xavier pointed out, "represents the path of the mutant who attacked the President."

"You still planning on sending Jean and Storm after him?" Logan asked, personally believing that Zen would have been the better choice.

Xavier nodded. Again the focus narrowed down, this time encompassing Boston. Now the trail began fragmenting.

"I'm having difficulty locking in on him," Xavier confided.

"Can't you focus harder?"

"Yes, if my goal was to kill him."

Logan folded his arms over his chest. "You can do that?"

"Easily," Xavier said after a long measured glance.

"A lot of people would pay a fortune for a skill like that,"

With another spinning lurch, the scene zoomed in further, settling on a neighborhood in the South End. A single crimson light was blinking. Latitude and longitude points shimmered into existence over the light and a moment later their corresponding cross streets appeared.

"There we go, he'd finally stopped running and gone to ground."

Closing his eyes, Xavier disconnected mentally from the machine, causing the lightshow to vanish. Logan rubbed his eyes, and X gave a low growl in his mind, reminded of Zen's unpleasant for of travel.

The walkway had returned, and fresh air wafted through the now open door. A new scent drifted into the room: Ivory soap, Old Spice, and small dash of Armani that had to come from Jean. Scott stood in the doorway expectantly, dressed for the road.

Logan's eyes locked with the other mutant's face, and not for the first time, he felt the hair at the nape of his neck rise like an agitated dog since he couldn't meet the man's eyes. The feral in him despised not being able to get a proper measure of the man. So much could be learned by looking into the eyes of another. Scott's mocking smile did nothing to ease the tension between them. A corresponding feral grin, more a bearing of teeth than anything friendly, made Scott's smirk wilt a little along the edges.  _That's it pretty boy, even with your fancy eyes, I could take you if I wished to._

"Logan," the sharp rebuke almost made him want to whine at the unfairness of the universe. There were times when Xavier made him feel like a small child, and he was one of those mothers with eyes in the back of her head.

Once Logan's attention was back on the Professor, he continued. "Scott and I are visiting an old friend tonight, and I would like you to play chaperone to the children while we're gone."

A grunt was the only reply, but Xavier's smile proved the man knew he'd won.  _Damn it all, I've gone from the most terrifying killing machine ever to . . . babysitter._

* * *

"Okay, here are the rules. That's your side over there, and this is my side. Don't come on my side, don't mess with my stuff, don't stare at me in that creepy way all the time, and don't kill me in my sleep."

Zen stared at Pietro's agitated face, trying to decipher the emotions flashing behind his eyes. "What did I say about staring?" Pietro growled.

Turning his back on the furious teen, Zen began unpacking the endless bags of new clothes. Every item was meticulously folded and put away. Half the items ended up in a drawer that he mentally marked as never to use. While he'd done his best to curb Kitty's spending nature, he wasn't successful. By the end of the nightmarish journey, he'd given up trying to contain the girl. So many of the so called outfits would never see the light of day.

Behind him, Pietro sat down in the middle of the bed, glaring at his back. His stomach clenched uncomfortably with every move the short boy made, and it took him almost fifteen minutes to understand his feelings.

Fear.

It sat on his chest, crushing his ability to draw a full breath and pinning him in place. He swallowed what felt like a lump of coal and tried to get ahold of himself.  _Zen won't hurt me, he can't. As long as I leave him alone, he'll leave me alone. Right._

Having Zen move in was akin to sharing his room with a Black Mamba. In the back of his mind, he saw the terrible splash of blood as mutant after mutant died under Zen's indifferent hand.

He saw his sister's empty eyes, knew he couldn't do anything but watch. Like flipping a switch, the fear morphed into unspeakable rage. His body vibrated with the desperate need to attack.

_Not just attack. Kill._

_Where will it stop?_ The Professor's words rang in his heart again. Zen was the tool used to murder his sister, but he wasn't the hand that held that tool. It was an evil daisy chain whose end he couldn't guess at.

Yes, he might be able to kill Zen. Key word being might, now that the assassin had access to his power and was permitted to use it in self-defense, he wasn't sure he'd be able to strike the killing blow before Zen took him down.

What then? What if he managed to kill Zen and get out of the school without getting caught? What then? He already knew that the old facility was abandoned. He had no idea where to start looking for the rest of the scum behind his sister's death.

Then there was Logan. No way would he be able to kill Zen and not have to face the indestructible feral. A shudder skittered through him at the morbid thoughts plaguing his mind. No, he wasn't going to even attempt to kill Zen. Madness lay down that path.

But that didn't mean he had to like sharing a room with the twerp.

Over the next half hour, Pietro learned a bizarre truth. When Zen's focus was on a person, it was total. When he ignored someone, that was total too.

For reasons he didn't want to examine, Pietro resented the fact that Zen was ignoring him.  _Ridiculous, get a grip man, you don't_ want _him paying attention to you. If you play this right, we can spend the rest of our lives pretending the other doesn't exist._ That thought was depressing, and he bit his lip with indecision.

Scowling, he glared at Zen as he moved around their shared room. Even when he did nothing wrong, he irritated Pietro. Then he almost swallowed his tongue when Zen pulled his shirt off. "What are you doing," Pietro all but shrieked.

Once again, that penetrating gaze fell on him like a ton of bricks. "I'm changing into my pajamas," Zen replied before dismissing him again.

"Er . . . right," Pietro muttered, heat burning his cheeks as he looked away. Once the short assassin was fully dressed again, Pietro looked him over. Dark red plaid pajamas met his gaze, and he couldn't stop the low chuckle from escaping. It was sort of like finding out that death wore fuzzy bunny slippers in the morning.

Seeing Zen in his jammies made him seem almost real to Pietro. Not the terrible harbinger of death he'd been in the facility, but . . .

Just another kid.

Shaking his head, Pietro threw himself back onto the bed. No, he wasn't going to fall for it. Now he understood what the Professor's devious plot was, but he refused to be defeated so easily. Of course Zen was a real person, but that didn't change the fact that he was still pure evil. Just because he was kind of cute in a little kid sort of way when he wandered around the room dressed like that didn't un-spill a single drop of blood.  _Nothing he does will ever bring my sister back._

And not just Wanda, but every person whose life had been cut short at the hand of his new roommate.  _Holy shit, I'm going to be sleeping in the same room as a mass murderer._ Pietro wondered if this is what it felt like to end up in jail when you were innocent. How could anyone cope with something like this?

It was crazy, that's all. Maybe none of this was real. Maybe he'd run into a tree at full speed and was now in a coma somewhere, dreaming this whole disastrous situation up.

Then he snorted at the utter ridiculousness of his own thoughts. Yes, Zen was a murderer, and yes he'd killed his sister, but there wasn't anything either of them could do to change those two facts. Nothing would bring Wanda back, even Zen's death couldn't do that.

* * *

Pietro strained against the demented bands holding him in place. It was akin to an adult version of the little kid bouncers some insane parents hung in doorways. No matter how hard he struggled against them, he couldn't break free.

 _We'll never get out of here._  Despair flavored the thought like drops of acid in his brain.  _No, I refuse to die here like a rat trapped in a bottle._  Baring his teeth, he renewed his efforts until he collapsed in the bindings, his muscles giving out under the strain. "Fuck!" He shouted, sweat pouring off his face and making his skin itch.

"Just stop now." The soft broken voice tore him out of his brooding thoughts, and he almost flinched when his gaze met Wanda's. He hadn't asked what the doctor did to her this time, and she hadn't offered, but looking at the dead look in her eyes, he knew.

She was dying by inches, and there was nothing he could do to save her.

"Sorry," he whispered. "When we get out, I'll buy you a triple decker Sunday with all the toppers you want." Instead of the wan smile he could usually get out of her, she stared at him hopelessly.

"We're never getting out." The words fell into his heart like sharp edged stones, making him choke on a sob.

Swallowing the useless sound, he forced his tired body to its full height. "Yes, we are. Don't give up on me now, we're all we've got, and we can make it through this. You and me, always. Remember?"

Pietro flinched when her jarring laugh rang out, making the other prisoners shift uneasily in their cells. It had gotten quiet in the vast room, the way it did sometimes and he wanted to shout, to continue thrashing, anything to silence her heart breaking laughter.

The sound dwindled in fits and jags, Pietro wondered if her mind was still intact. "Wanda?"

"Foolish brother, when will you open your eyes? The only way out is death."  _And I'll welcome it when it comes._ The unspoken words were an endless scream between them.

Then, as if he were the Angel of Death and had heard her silent prayer . . . IX came striding out of the shadows. He'd moved with terrible grace towards Wanda's cell.

Pietro's throat convulsed on the scream, so raw it got trapped within the narrow flesh. For the first time since his mutation became active, Pietro's body stilled completely.

_No, nononononono!_

She didn't fight.

She didn't scream.

She didn't cry.

With the artistic swipe of his blade, IX painted a smile below her chin, granting her freedom.

Pietro fell out of bed in a painful tangle of limbs and blankets. His heart had become a frightened humming bird trying to pound itself to death upon the cage of his ribs. Blood filled his mind, and the last memory of his beloved sister tried to shatter his skull.

Tears fell unnoticed down his cheeks, and before he decided to move, he found himself standing over Zen's bed. His whole body shook beneath the relentless storm of emotion, the need for revenge.

Jaded green eyes stared up into his tortured face passively. It took him a long minute to realize Zen was awake.

A ghost of emotion brushed over Zen's blank features, and the small assassin sat up.

Confusion tore at the rage, making Pietro take a stumbling step back when the short teen stood up and padded over to his dresser, all the while ignoring his wrathful roommate.

When Zen turned to face him, his heart gave another sharp lurch. In Zen's hand was a slender knife.

Fear doused the rage like a flood sweeping through a house, leaving him frozen in mind-numbing terror. Deaths, countless deaths began to play out in the theater of his thoughts, and even though he screamed at his body to move, the muscles refused to obey.

 _The only way out is death._ Wanda's last words haunted him, and he wondered if this was how she'd felt. Wanting to scream, to fight, to do anything but stand there waiting for death to come. Maybe she hadn't let Zen kill her, maybe she'd been frozen in place too.

Instead of slashing his throat open, Zen flipped the knife, offering it to Pietro hilt first.


	31. Scylla and Charybdis

**Chapter Thirty-One –** **Scylla and Charybdis**

"The place where you made your stand never mattered. Only that you were there…and still on your feet." - Stephen King,  _The Stand_

* * *

The knife hung between them like a deadly exclamation point. With agonizing slowness, the terror eased and Pietro could move again. He stared dumbly at the blade, unable to comprehend what Zen meant by it.

A sigh escaped the tiny assassin as his other hand snapped out to capture Pietro's limp one. With care, he eased the handle into his grip.

 _Your life and death belong to your wielder._  Yes, but he'd never been trained on what to do if his wielder refused to take them.

He had become obsolete. If Pietro's pain could be eased with his death, if that could heal the damage Zen caused the boy, then at least his death would have meaning.

"What?" Pietro choked out through the painful lump in his throat.

Zen took a step back before tilting his head up. Offering his throat to the teen as he'd once offered it to his original master when he'd believed himself too damaged to be of value to the man.

"I cannot restore your sister's life, but I can offer my life in payment for taking hers."

The words hung between them like the ghost of his lost sister, a promise of revenge. Pietro's grip tightened on the handle. Every fiber of his being demanded blood for blood. It was only fair Zen die by his hand after taking Wanda from him.

Only fair.

Pietro's hand lifted, halting and then rose again. The sharp edge of the knife glittered between them, hungry to free his blood. His breath shuddered in his lungs as the blade came to rest on the delicate skin of Zen's throat. His death would parallel Wanda's and bring closure to the agony that had taken the place of his heart.

Swallowing, Pietro's grip tightened on the handle. It felt slick in his trembling hand. Zen hadn't moved away.  _He's going to stand there and let me kill him._ All he had to do was press a little harder, and he'd free the crimson tide of Zen's existence.  _Why is he doing this?_

"Why?" the rough word startled Pietro, he hadn't meant to speak it out loud.

"Because I'm incapable of feeling anything for the lives I've taken, and my life is all I have to give to make amends."

Everything in him screamed to finish it, to apply that last bit of pressure, but his hand refused to follow the directing of his mind.  _No damn it! This is all I've wanted since_ her  _death, don't choke now when revenge is finally at hand_ , but no matter how fiercely he berated himself, he couldn't drag the blade through Zen's exposed throat.

Zen's words penetrated the haze of conflicting emotion, and Pietro almost fell over when he understood.

This was Zen's morbid attempt at an apology. Mere words hadn't been enough to placate Pietro, so now he offered his life instead. With understanding came shame that he'd even considered taking it. Closing his eyes, he pulled the knife away.

"Go back to bed."

Without offering another word, Zen crawled back into bed as if he hadn't almost committed suicide by angry teen.

The sound of Pietro's muffled sobs filled the darkness between them. While the noise didn't impact his digestive system the way Kitty's tears often did, it made his muscles tense with the urge to silence the sound. Instead, he slid his eyes shut and waited for his new roommate's crying to give way to sleep.

* * *

Working in Washington had taken on a new meaning as the town sprawled out over its borders. Now, anywhere inside the Capital Beltway was considered working in Washington. In Rockville, Maryland, a cluster of moderate high-rise buildings glittered like forgotten toys in the dying evening light. The hustle and bustle of the day had been replaced by a clutch of night guards and scurrying custodians. Even in a world where terrorism was the talk of the day, this location wasn't considered a viable target. Much of the surveillance was handled remotely, via a control office that watched through a plethora of cameras. The only human presence was a manned reception desk, and a couple of rent-a-cop guards who patrolled the floors. Aside from that, Big Brother was responsible for the rest.

When Yuriko Oyama stalked through the front door, the Officer at the desk barely glanced up from her Danielle Steel novel. Oyama's group were the sort who didn't conform to office hours. Instead they worked almost 24/7, doing audits, they said. The guard wasn't paid to nose in on the clients business, especially since all their paperwork was in order.

Yuriko flashed her badge at the woman, whose eyes flicked up before she waived a hand at the familiar figure as she walked by.

A mechanical ding marked her arrival at the top floor. Stepping out of the elevator, Yuriko strode past one of the night cleaners without offering a word of greeting. Her destination was located at the end of the bland hallway, behind an equally nondescript door. A hand scanner took the place of traditional locks or their more advanced cousins, pad coded locks. Pressing her right hand to the pad, the lock snicked open.

The door opened, revealing a suite of rooms that could have belonged to any midlevel worker, the only personality the room could boast was its utter lack of personality. It had the same passive look as a high end hotel room.

As she walked across the room, she passed an opaque glass wall divider, her form shifting as she moved. In less than five steps, the figure's features melted like a wax figurine popped into a microwave. Then the features solidified into a new shape. The black hair grew in reverse as the shade lightened into a deep auburn, amber skin gave way to deepest blue, and features that had been distinctly Asian shifted to aristocratic Caucasian. Her features held a predatory cast akin to one of the great hunting birds yet still possessed a haunting beauty. The clothing melted into her skin until what remained was mostly nude save for a hand full of scales and ridges that provided some degree of protection and the illusion of propriety.

Her eyes were liquid gold, and she went by the name Mystique. Over her left breast, a hairs breath away from her heart, was a small dimple of scar tissue.

Settling in Stryker's chair, Mystique thumbed the computer monitor on. A dialog box appeared: VOICE PRINT IDENTIFICATION PLEASE.

Although her outer appearance remained the same, the structures inside her throat altered so that when she spoke, a perfect replication of Stryker's voice immerged. "Stryker, William."

 _ACCESS GRANTED_ , flashed once across the screen before the desktop appeared. Her fingers darted over keyboard, pulling up the directories and choosing Recent Items from the main menu of a folder labeled: 143. That led her to a series of documents:  _Floor Plans, Lehnsherr, Augmentation, Interrogation Summaries . . ._

Mystique read through the data quickly while printing everything she could pull up. Each one revealed more damning details. Her lips thinned as she read, it was far worse than she'd feared.

Downstairs, the shifts changed, and a man watched Yuriko approach the desk, his eyes blazed with interest but he knew better than to even try. Her icy gaze promised pain to any male foolish enough to leap into those waters. Without acknowledging him in any way, she stalked past his desk toward the elevators.

Another document slid into the printer tray when Mystique's head jerked up at the sound of the locks disengaging.

The real Yuriko walked over to her desk and began rummaging through the main drawer. Then, without warning, she spun on her heel, a Glock 19 out and pointed at the intruder's startled face.

"Who are you?" she demanded. "Why are you here?"

A uniformed janitor held his hands up in the universal sign of 'don't shoot.'

" _Lo siento, a puerta fui abierto!"_ he managed to say, fear making the words squeak on the way out.

Yuriko grabbed the worker's ID, hanging from a lanyard around his neck, and scrutinized the photo. Then she accessed the night crew roster from her handheld to ensure both were legitimate.

Letting the frightened man's badge drop, she waved him away and returned to her task, dismissing the custodian from her thoughts. It never occurred to her to question why he'd been in her office cleaning without his supply cart.

Mystique pondered that as she moved quickly down the hall, right past the man whose face she'd stolen. The real janitor stared at her in shocked disbelief before crossing himself. Mystique's thoughts returned to Yuriko. This venture had gone easier than she'd expected, giving her a hope she hadn't felt since Magneto's capture. Perhaps it wouldn't be long before Stryker was the one on the run, and it was his society in ruins.

* * *

Mount Haven wasn't a comfortable place for a telepath. They'd only been here a few minutes, and the low grade headache already throbbed in his temples. It was caused by the ultralow frequency harmonics pitched to inhibit any form of extrasensory perception. Xavier's power was great enough to overcome it, but it took more effort and had a greater cost. It was easier, while he was here, to keep his powers to himself.

What bothered him most about the whole setup was that the designers knew what they were doing. It hinted at an uncomfortable understanding of mutation. Once he'd learned where Magneto was housed, he'd made a number of subtle inquires in an effort to learn as much as he could about the government agency that developed the institution, but few of his leads offered concrete answers.

Following the established protocols, Xavier's chair was swapped out for one made entirely of plastic. Accompanied by an armed guard, he and Scott were led through the interior maze of the prison until they reached the unorthodox cage that held Magneto captive.

With the surly manner of a man accustomed to obedience, Laurio waved Scott away from the chair.

"I'll take it from here."

Scott didn't care for the man's tone, nor the cruel look in his eye, and he bristled over the command.

"Scott," Xavier said with quiet force, "it's alright, I won't be long."

With a hiss of escaping air, the hatch opened onto a small platform. The pair waited in silence for the plastic tunnel to unfold, bridging the gap between them and the cell. Moving through the translucent tube, Xavier could sense how vast the space around them was, and knew his life depended on the integrity of the rigs and cables holding the tunnel aloft. While most people picked up their speed on the walkway to escape that yawning emptiness, Laurio slowed. It was his way of emphasizing that he held all the control here.

Once they were across, Laurio pushed Xavier into position and left the two men alone in the clear cell.

Lehnsherr sat with his back to Xavier, and didn't turn around while he spoke. "Come to rescue me, Charles?"

"Not today, Erik. I'm sorry." Honest regret flavored the soft words, as if there might be a rescue . . . someday.

"If not to save me, why did you come?" Lehnsherr asked, unable to keep the amusement out of his tone.

"The assassination attempt on the president. What do you know of it?"

"Only what I've gleaned from the newspapers," Erik turned to face his old companion. "You shouldn't even have to ask."

Xavier couldn't hide the way he recoiled, and didn't try. Bruises painted the other man's face like a grotesque sunrise. Parchment yellow, mottled green, streaks of purple fading into darkest black. The way he held himself spoke of other injuries hidden beneath the thin material of his jumpsuit.

"What happened?" Xavier almost choked on the words.

"I . . . fell," Lehnsherr replied, an ironic smile quirking his lips. "In the shower."

"This isn't a joke!"

"No," Lehnsherr agreed, shaking his head.

"This is unconscionable."

"I'm a terrorist, Charles. An enemy of humanity. With a status like that, and the circumstances of my capture, I've been informed often that I should be grateful for my treatment."

"Informed by whom?" Charles demanded, already drafting his future protests to the authorities. "Who's responsible for this outrage?"

"You remember William Stryker, don't you?"

The name had come up recently in relation to a disappearance, and had been one of the few names he'd managed to dig up when he was trying to follow the back trail of the ones who'd created this facility.

"I recall him."

"In the past few months, I've been subject to a number of unpleasant visits with the man. His son, Jason was it, was once a student of yours I believe."

Xavier gave a low hum of agreement. "Indeed, though he was more patient than student I'm afraid. He was one of the few I couldn't help. At least not in the way Stryker wished."

* * *

Night fell like crushed black velvet, enfolding the slender jet in its silky folds as it approached Boston. The aircraft skimmed along the surface of the harbor as silent and agile as a dragonfly, targeting a small stretch of waterfront near the Marine Industrial Park. It didn't take Storm long to find a decent slip with enough depth for their needs, and with a deftness born of practice, she settled the jet onto the water. Then she engaged the autopilot to submerge after they'd disembarked. With over ten feet of water above the Jet, there was enough room for smaller boats that might come this way to clear it, and no chance of it being spotted by a casual observer.

Both women slid trench coats over their uniforms before making their way through the deserted streets.

Closing her eyes, Storm let her power mingle with the atmospheric balance around them to provide a soft swirl of mist over their location. She was careful not to turn it into a true fog, not wanting to be too conspicuous, just enough to allow them to slip away without being seen if they were forced to retreat.

They found a Church when they reached the coordinates Xavier gave.

Before this part of the city fell into disrepair, the Church would have been the crowning jewel of the neighborhood. It had been founded on the old tradition, built to last by stonemasons who'd been designing something that would serve the grandchildren of their grandchildren. The old construct still held an air of dignity that couldn't be erased by the blatant graffiti painted over its face.

Painted in crimson along one of its walls was the line: CLEAN THE GENE POOL! KILL MUTANT SCUM! Storm wrinkled her nose at the sentiments.

"We'll never be able to live our lives in peace," she said, anger burning in her tone. There were days she couldn't help thinking Magneto had a point. Her fists clinched as her gazed turned towards the Boston Harbor, and a thick slash of lightning cut at the night like a knife over the distant water.

"Come on," Jean whispered. Together, they circled the Church. To their shock, all the windows and doors Jean used her teke on proved to be locked.

"Perhaps someone is taking care of the old place?" Storm offered.

"Maybe, I've been picking up a few though flashes from the bar up the street."

"From the guys we saw through the window," Storm asked, unable to mask her disgust at the way the men stared at them like half-starved dogs. "You're braver than me."

"Tell me about it," Jean agreed, her tone a twin to Storm's disgust. "Thing is, this church has a rep. It's supposed to be haunted by its very own demon."

"Get out."

"No lie. They believe it too. The gang members actually use the Church as one of the methods for jumping people in. Most of the thugs choose a physical beating instead of trying to tag it."

Storm shook her head at the stupidity of some people. "I've never met a demon before."

"After you, then."

Applying a creative use of telekinesis and a burst of wind, the bolts on the main doors popped, forcing the doors open wide to the two women. They boomed against the walls, echoing throughout the Church like a great bell.

From the rafters, a flock of pigeons exploded into the open space, startled awake by the noise. Both remained silent and watchful as they made their way down to the nave. The floor of the Church was mostly empty, the pews long gone from their traditional place. Above them, crouched in the shadows below the vaulted ceiling, a pair of chrome yellow eyes observed the invaders. And then, with the soft  _bamf_  of imploding air, they vanished.

Storm jerked to a halt, her head twisting up to stare into the darkness.

"What?" Jean asked.

"The air shifted."

"Movement?"

"No, it was more than that. There was a sudden vacuum over there." She pointed towards where the lurking figure had been. "And an outrushing of air from something popping into being." Turning, she directed her gaze towards the alter. "There."

" _Gehen sie raus,"_  a low ominous voice spoke from the deepest darkness ahead of them. A single candle lit the darkness, set beside an open Bible. Its fragile light flickered from a sudden breeze, and the top page fluttered.

"He's gone again," Storm said. Jean nodded her agreement.

In a balcony above their heads, the voice boomed again: " _Ich bin die augheburt des Bosen."_

"We're not here to harm you," Storm replied. "We just want to talk."

She turned before the last echo of her words died away to face the faint shift in air pressure.

" _Ich bin ein Bote des Teufels!"_ The stranger's voice snapped back in a primal howl.

An awkward thought slid into Storm's mind. "You know . . . we're assuming he speaks English."

"Not a problem," Jean replied. "He's a teleporter."

"I noticed," Storm said.

"That's why the Professor had such a difficult time locking in on him with Cerebro."

"Will it be any easier for us to capture him?"

"Not a problem."

Another  _bamf_  of air sounded, this time much closer than the last, although neither woman was able to make out a shape in the oppressive gloom of the Church.

" _Ich ben ein damon!"_  The voice shrieked out of the darkness.

Jean's eyes rolled at the mutant's dramatics. She shifted her stance into a perfect imitation of ValGal Barbie.

"Like, are you board yet?" she chirped.

"Totally," Storm replied in a deadpan voice.

"You want to bring him down, or shall I?"

Storm's lips corked in a wicked grin as her eyes narrowed. With a snap of her fingers, a small bolt of lightning erupted from her hand, shot out, and slammed into one of the rafters. A brilliant explosion of light and sound filled the enclosed space, rattling the building to its foundation.

A vague human shape appeared in their vision before it vanished. When it reappeared a second later above the alter, Jean was ready. Locking on his mental signature, she reached out with both telepathy and telekinesis to freeze both his body and mind. Though trapped, he continued to fight her grip, defiant to the end.

"Got him?"

"Yep, he's not going to be disappearing again any time soon." With a mental twitch, she drew her prey down for a closer look. Then, to Storm's surprise, she smiled a soft friendly smile and held out her other hand. "Are you?"

"Please don't kill me," he begged in English. The words swirled with undertones of German. Its mellow timber was an odd contrast to the monster he'd been attempting to play to drive them from his home. "I never meant to harm anyvon!"

"I wonder how anyone got that impression," Storm snorted. "What's your name?"

"Kurt. Kurt Wagner."

"I'm Ororo, but you may call me Storm." She said as he eyes cut sideways to Jean.  _This is our assassin?_

 _Appearances are deceiving,_  Jean projected back.  _But – which way?_

_Your call._

With that final thought from Storm, Jean let her captive go. Like a cat, he twisted as he fell, landing neatly on the balls and toes of his odd shaped feet. His whole body was tensed to flee, but Jean took it as a good sign that he hadn't disappeared the second she'd released him. Still, she kept her hand held out for him to take.

"My name is Jean Grey. We're not here to harm you."

Kurt had taken a page out of Quasimodo's book, living up in the spire, one level below the belfry. Here the walls were solid, and he'd replaced the broken stained glass with hand carved pieces that matched the originals as closely as possible. Storm smiled, by day this room would be a blaze of mingled colors.

Instead of using electricity, he had a collection of stubby candles to keep the light from being spotted from the street. The height of the room afforded him a perfect panorama of the neighborhood below. In here, he had both privacy and a fair chance of spotting any intruders before they could get in. For a teleporting acrobat whose skin blended almost perfectly with the dark stone, it was an ideal home.

While the furnishings had a Spartan feel to them, they appeared to have been a deliberate choice rather than poverty. Yes, the pieces were mainly scavenged from the abandoned homes near by, but they'd been restored with the same craft and care as the windows. A wooden bookshelf, a bed, a small table, chairs, and a pantry. The food stocks were mostly dry for easy storage and preparation. On the bookshelf, an eclectic mix of Religious texts as well as books like Rafael Sabatini's  _Captain Blood,_ and George MacDonald Frasier's classic pastiche,  _The Pyrates_  sat side by side _._

A Catholic crucifix hung above the headboard and on the table rested a set of rosary beads that held the high polish of much handling. Scattered around the room were countless images of Christ and the Blessed Virgin. Beneath the rosary beads was a thin stack of newspapers, each with the attack of the President emblazoned in the headlines. The top of the stack included an artistic sketch of the assassin that was haunting accurate.

The far wall held a curiosity that didn't match the rest of the room. There were a series of circus posters, all from venues across Europe: Florence, Barcelona, Paris, Munich, Prague, Krakow. All were illustrations of Kurt on the trapeze, celebrating the various performances of the  _INCREDIABLE NIGHTCRAWLER!_  Along with these, were a few movie posters: Burt Lancaster in  _The Crimson Pirate,_  Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., in  _Sinbad the Sailor,_ and in the center, Errol Flynn's film adaptation of  _Captain Blood_ , the roll which cemented his swashbuckling career.

Jean couldn't hide the gentle smile that curved her lips. Kurt was obviously a deeply religious man with a love of pirate stories. Nothing in the room fit with him as an assassin. Then again, no one would look at Zen and think him a killer either. She'd had plenty of experience with people who didn't fit the picture they presented.

Still, nothing about Kurt reminded her of Zen. He didn't have the same hardness about him, that cold strength which could only be developed through the taking of life.

Kurt picked up the rosary when Jean asked if she could tend his wound. Though she knew she was hurting him, the only sounds that escaped were almost silent prayers, "Our Father, Who art in Heaven, blessed be Thy Name . . ."

Exploring the wound, Jean found that the bullet had missed the bone as it passed through his shoulder, but still did a fair amount of damage. Kurt's first aid was decent. He'd managed to stop the blood flow, and applied enough antiseptic to save off infection. With proper treatment, he wouldn't lose mobility in the limb.

"No worries," she murmured as she finished up the last of the sutures and wrapped the wound in clean bandages. "The worst you'll have is a small scar."

Blinking up at her, he frowned. "You're not the authorities, are you?"

Storm laughed, "Not a chance."

"But you are verying uniforms."

Again Jean grinned at him. "We just like to look cool." The grin faded a little. "Sorry if I hurt you."

"It's alright, I know it can't be helped." Kurt shook his head in a mix of resignation and confusion. "I don't understand any of this. I could . . ." the words died away as he glanced over at the old newspapers. In vain, he attempted to reconcile the reports with his own jumbled memories. "I couldn't stop myself," he admitted, desperation making the words high. "It all happened to someone else, like a bad dream. That would be nice, but then – I move my arm and know it for a lie!" A shudder rippled through him. "It  _was_ real. It was  _me,_ " he choked.

While he spoke, he twisted the rosary beads in his two fingered grip until the crucifix rested in his hand. Memories haunted his features.

"I fear He has left me," he whispered, loss like a bitter pill melting in his throat. "I've even found a mark, like that borne by Cain. See? Look here."

Shifting his head forward, he swept aside the deep indigo curls, revealing a circular mark at the base of his skill. Jean's finger traced a light circle around the skin, and she realized it was scar tissue akin to an insect bite or a welt left behind by a tropical irritant like poison ivy. The scar rested directly above the brain stem and formed a perfect circle.

"What do you think?" Storm asked Jean.

"We need to get him back to the Professor," she replied, concern and worry reflected in her green gaze.

* * *

_His mind was lost, buried under the hypnotic hum of the helmet over his head. Beneath the buzzing hum, the monster raged, hungered, longed to feast on hot flesh torn from bone. But no matter how the monster howled, his flesh remained inactive, inaccessible to him. Though his feet shuffled forward, it wasn't him who moved them. Orders thrummed on the edge of that buzz, orders his flesh obeyed without input from his feral mind._

_Then, the maddening sound cut out. Muscles jerked to life, and the helmet spun away to shatter against the wall._ Snikt!

_Unbreakable blades erupted from his flesh and tore into the two guards at his sides. Hot blood splashed over his night cool flesh like a blanket of liquid fire._

_The hunt began . . ._

* * *

Logan bellowed, jerking out of sleep only to find himself on the floor surrounded by the ruins of his bed. Sighing, he lifted his hand to brush the feathers out of his hair, only to pause and make sure the claws had retracted. He didn't want to end up putting out his own eye. Sure it would grow back, but cleaning up the feathers  _and_  blood would be a pain in the ass he didn't feel like dealing with.

A glance proved that he was safe, and the dull throb of healing tissue was the only reminder of their emergence. Spitting out a stray feather, he staggered out of the mess and flipped on the light. The bed was a littler of splinters punctuated by mounds of fluffy white feathers and long strips of shredded linen. It looked like a pack of vengeful St. Bernards attacked it.

For a second, he wondered why no one had come to investigate, and then remembered he was the only adult left in the mansion.

Rubbing his face, he examined the dream,  _memory._  Before now, his sleep had been mostly dreamless. There was the random fragment that disappeared after he woke up, but nothing like this. And he'd never decimated his bed before.

As much as he hated to acknowledge it, the dream wasn't a dream at all. It was a memory. Worse, it wasn't his memory.

It was X's.

He could still feel the blood rain over his skin as claws drove through flesh, and feel X's savage delight in striking back at those who'd tried to control him.

"That's not right," he muttered to himself. They hadn't tried, they'd succeeded. Perhaps, but it looked like that success had been bought in lives and blood. How many people died to create X? Shaking his shaggy head, he shoved the thought out of his mind.

Logan didn't want to know. If he had his way, he'd never have to know. Even as he thought it, he recalled the Professor's words about integration. Could he remain two forever?

The dream tonight wasn't a great sign for remaining separate. Maybe integration wouldn't be a choice after all. "Damn it X, just stay in your cage and keep your bloody memories to yourself."

His clothes were on the other side of the room, and had thankfully been spared his nocturnal berserker outburst. Snatching a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt out of the closet, he padded into the bathroom for a shower. Blasting the water as hot as he could stand, he let it wash the night sweat and memories from his skin.

In his mind's eye, he could almost see the red swills of blood draining away with the water.  _No shower, hoses, they hosed him down after with a spray so hard it almost pealed his skin off._ A low snarl slid from his lips as the half thought, half memory struck him.

_Not him, not his, mine. My body they used and experimented on. My mind they tore apart. Mine._

Banishing the uncomfortable thoughts, Logan scrubbed his flesh until it felt raw. When he'd woken up, he knew the time. It was an instinct, brother to his uncanny sense of direction. It was impossible for him to get lost, and he knew whenever something in his intimate surroundings changed while he was unconscious.

A hair past 3:00 A.M.

Logan prowled the empty halls of the mansion, his tread silent in spite of his boots. Photographs, paintings, and antiques on casual display were each registered in turn before being dismissed. This process occurred on a subconscious level; if quizzed later, he could describe his environment in detail even if the objects held no meaning to him. Tools yes, he understood tools, but found little interest in ornamental artifacts.

The electronic voice of the television lured him upstairs into one of the common rooms. He'd assumed the box had been left on by mistake, but when he approached, he noted the fresh young scent of an early adolescent male.

He recognized the scent, with its low undertones of electricity that was a far tamer version of Zen's blood. Jones. No first name, at least, not one he or anyone else used.

Long gangly legs were tossed over one of the arm rests, and a huge bowl of popcorn rested on the sprawled teen's chest. His eyes were glued to the screen, and every few seconds he'd blink, changing the channel and causing that electric odor to spike.

The lingering scent was familiar to him, not because of this boy but someone else . . . someone he couldn't quite recall.

Jones noticed Logan in the refection of the screen, but he didn't look up. Even though he didn't much care for what he was watching, he still refused to miss a second of it.

"Can't sleep?" he asked around a mouthful of popcorn.

"How could you tell?" Logan shot back.

"Cause you're awake."

A low snort met the words. No arguing with that infallible logic.

"Right, so what's your excuse?"

"I don't sleep."

"Figures." Without bothering to continue the conversation, he wandered into the kitchen for a late night drink.  _Too bad Baldy won't let me buy beer._

Digging into the pantry, he stole a six pack of Dr. Pepper stashed there. Logan recognized the chilled scent of the teen who'd entered the room before he saw him. Bobby Drake sat at the table, scooping out a chunk of cookie dough from the quart container of Ben and Jerry's in front of him.

"Hey," Bobby said carefully before popping the bite into his mouth to keep from squeaking. While Logan had sensed him coming, it was clear Bobby hadn't realized he was in the room until he'd closed the pantry door, and now it was too late to flee without damaging his pride.

"Hey," Logan replied, taking the seat across from Bobby. He gestured at the boy with the bottle.

"Want one?" he asked. When Bobby nodded, he added "They're warm."

A smirk flashed over the kid's lips as he reached for the bottle. Between them, the air crackled and frost formed on his fingers and the glass. "Not anymore," he replied, letting his hand drop.

Logan popped the top and took a long swig of the now icy soda. Ah, just the way he liked it.

"Handy," he admitted.

Bobby nodded in acknowledgement as he frosted his own bottle.

"So," Logan asked bluntly, his eyes narrowing as he held up his right hand, and for show, popped the middle claw out with a low hiss, then back in. Soda erupted from Bobby's mouth and nose, followed by a desperate lunge for the paper towels. Throughout the humorous performance, Logan didn't move. Instead he eyed his fist, apparently engrossed in looking for signs of damage caused by the blade.

Once Bobby settled back into his chair, Logan gave him his most deadly look. "What's with you and Zen, hm?"

* * *

The sobbing died down to low snores hours ago, but Zen couldn't find sleep. Not with an enemy in the room. It didn't matter that the boy refused to kill him while he had the chance. He doubted he could have slept with Kitty in the room, let alone Pietro. If he had to sleep with anyone, he preferred X. Not one of the students who hated him.

Tiredness beat at him, but Zen ignored it easily. Instead of remaining in bed, he got up to walk the mansion. Now that he wasn't confined to his cell at night, he could ensure that the place remained secure. Either way, it was better than staring up at the dark ceiling waiting for sleep to come. Not bothering to change out of his pajamas, Zen ghosted through the empty halls.

* * *

Jones slid on a pair of Bode headphones and cranked the volume up. Every blink changed the channel of the TV so fast it was hard to tell what shows were on before they vanished into the next.

In the night darkened sky, the assault force closed in on the mansion from three directions. Two by silenced helicopters following a map-of-the-earth profile which had the wheels of their Sikorsky  _Blackhawks_  flirting with the treetops while the final unit used SCUBA sleds to approach from the lake. All the teams were handpicked by Stryker himself, culled from the finest special operations units the world had to offer: American SEALS and Army Rangers, Great Britain's Special Air Service, Russian  _Spetznats,_ German GSG-9, Israeli Pathfinders, and a handful of Vietnamese. The mixed group trained for this operation for months, familiarizing themselves with the land and lay out of the mansion, but also training extensively in how to defend themselves from the myriad of powers and abilities they would encounter during the attack. Now that all the adult staff were absent from the school, it was time to put their preparation to the test.

In smooth practiced succession, the first units rappelled from the hovering aircrafts, the team moved swiftly to neutralize the security network and take control of both power and communications into and out of the structure. Once they were finished, the school was completely isolated. Even cellular and radio communications were jammed. High overhead, an orbiting C-130 Hercules kept the estate under continual electronic surveillance, utilizing thermal imagery to mark where all the living bodies were in the mansion. Only a few of the marks were awake, for the rest, it was already too late.

* * *

Studying the bank of monitors in the observation booth, Scott noticed both the facial bruising and Xavier's reaction, but the show was all pantomime without sound.

Scott glanced irritably at the guard, who only shrugged in apology.

"Happens sometimes," he offered, commenting on the lack of sound instead of Magneto's condition.

"It happens here, with this prisoner?" Scott demanded, refusing to believe they'd be so careless.

"We got backups on top of backups," Laurio snapped. "You got nothing to worry about. Joey, put in a call for a techie. Let's get this fixed before Play Boy here makes a federal case."

Both guards laughed, and the hair along the back of Scott's neck prickled. Everything felt a little off, and he sent a sharp spear of thought towards Xavier. He shouted inside his head, but the figure on the screen failed to react in the slightest to his mental call.

* * *

Lehnsherr reached out with graceful fingers to snag a pawn from the plastic chess board. After a moment, he exchanged it for a knight.

"You shouldn't have come, Charles."

For a moment, Xavier didn't reply. His head was cocked to the side in an all too familiar listening pose. His brows furrowed as he tried to catch hold of the thought tickling the edge of his awareness, but the low thrum of the interference kept him from grasping it. The low throbbing headache had grown to head splitting proportions, forcing him to give up on the quest.

Although heightening his telepathic ability failed to give him the answers he sought, it clued him in on a more dire situation.

"Erik," he gasped, stunned by the memory fragments he caught through the edges of the headache. "What have you done?"

"I'm sorry, Charles," Lehnsherr replied, slashing his hand across the chess board, knocking down both kings at once. He was a man of pride, and long ago he'd vowed to never become a victim again. His utter failure was a hard bone to swallow. That he hadn't been able to keep his friend's secrets was harder to swallow still. "I . . . couldn't help myself."

"What have you told Stryker?"  _About my school, my X-men,_ he thought desperately at the other man. Now he recognized the source of the burr in his awareness that had been bothering him since he'd arrived. Martialing his strength, he sent a desperate mental call to Scott.

"Everything," Lehnsherr whispered with the cold finality of a death sentence.

A low ominous hiss sounded from the walls around them. Colorless mist began filling the enclosure.

Xavier had time for a final mental shout:  _SCOTT! –_ before oblivion took him.

Erik watched his old friend fall. The gas invading the cell had been designed for Xavier's genetic signature. It would affect Erik too, but not as quickly.

He coughed, recalling how the white clouds would pour from the vents of the "showers" that claimed so many at Auschwitz. He remembered the feel of lifeless flesh beneath his grip, still warm as he and the other  _Sonderkommando_  drug the bodies from the gas chambers to the crematoria. Every head was sheered of hair, and had the gold pried from their teeth. Anything of value was taken from them, both before and after the slaughter. Especially their dignity.

Never again, he'd sworn to himself back then. Though his captors thought that the most hollow of boasts, he knew he'd live long enough to make them regret it.

"I'm sorry, Charles," he whispered with his last conscious breath. "You should have killed me when you had the chance." Then his eyes trailed towards the distant observation booth, but the face that slipped into his mind was Stryker. "So should you," he finished before the last of his thoughts melted into nothingness.

On the monitors, Scott watched Xavier lunge forward in his chair before collapsing forward at the same time Magneto fell from his chair. The echo of his mentor's final cry resonated in his mind.

"What the hell," he shouted.

His head jerked up to locate the guards, when he heard a soft  _pop_ and felt the dull impact of something striking him in the chest. Scott didn't know what it was, but his body reacted of its own volition to the sudden ambush.

Spotting a new person in the room, a young Asian in a uniform holding a dart pistol, his mind leapt nimbly forward. The dart gun indicated they wanted him alive, and the fact that he wasn't unconscious yet proved its ineffectiveness. Perhaps the needle wasn't long enough to penetrate his coat. It didn't matter, what did was the fact that they wouldn't make the same mistake twice. He'd have to act first.

All those thoughts raced through his mind in the second it took for him to complete the turn and register the woman as the primary threat. He wasn't gentle with his response. Tapping a control on the wing of his visor, the ruby quartz depolarized, and a beam of crimson light shot through the lenses.

The woman flew back as if she'd been hit square in the chest by a battering ram. It lifted her bodily off the ground and slammed her into the wall behind her, causing her head to whiplash back against the unforgiving surface. She crumpled into a heap on the ground, knocked unconscious and bloody from a nasty scalp wound. The blow also shattered the pistol and knocked her shaded glasses off.

One of the guards made a grab at him from behind, but Scott buried his elbow in the man's gut, spun on his heel and slammed his fist into the side of the guard's face. That left Laurio and his partner.

A quick shot from his optics took out the partner, but Laurio was faster than he'd anticipated for a man of his bulk. The large man tackled Scott before he could bring his eyes to bear. Laruio might not be the most intelligent man around, but he was good in a fight, and he learned quickly. He'd seen how Scott had to manually manipulate the beam, and he tackled the mutant to keep his hands away from the controls. Without the power, Laurio figured it would be an easy win.

Now it was Laurio's turn to be surprised. Scott's slim rangy figure was as deceptive in its own way as Laurio's. His wiry strength was a match for the guard's, and he possessed a willing ability to take punishment. When Laurio slammed Scott with a couple of heavy body shots that took the fight out of most, the mutant merely winced with the shock and hit back just as hard.

Unnoticed by the two combatants, the woman – Yuriko Oyama – sat up. Beneath the blood, her scalp wound was gone, smoothed over in fresh skin.

Scott slammed a knee into Laurio's side to lever the larger man off of him before rolling the other way to snatch the nightstick from the guard's belt. The pair sprang to their feet like stray dogs, circling, but now Scott had the advantage as he lashed out with the stick, sending the handle into the pit of the larger man's gut. Laurio staggered, gasping for breath, and Scott followed that attack up with a roundhouse swing to the jaw, drawing a fountain of blood from both nose and mouth as he was thrown into the wall by the force of the blow.

Senses honed by hours spent in the Danger Room jerked Scott around to face the new threat, but as quick as he was, he was no match for Yuriko. She struck like a cobra, and the nightstick went spinning. Scott hissed in pain, it felt like he'd been hit by a steel bar. With mind numbing speed, she lashed out, hitting his hands, forearms, and mid body, leaving him incapable of defending himself.

How had this happened? He knew how hard he'd blasted her, and she should have been down for the count, not up and attacking more fiercely than before.

Without halting, she launched herself forward in a flying kick aimed for his head. He saw it coming, and tried to dodge, but watched in stunned disbelieve as she corrected midair before a massive jolt of agony slammed into the side of his skull as her booted foot made contact. On the way down she kicked him again for good measure.

Reaching down, she checked his pulse to ensure he survived before checking the monitor for Xavier. A smile of triumph flitted across her lips as she threaded her fingers together and cracked her knuckles. Mission accomplished.

* * *

Back at the mansion, the cascading images flashing in front of Jones's eyes froze, something else had caught his attention, an image on the screen, but not one that belonged to the show. Jones leaned forward slightly, before he clambered up the back of the couch to see who'd entered the room.

For a second, his mind couldn't comprehend what he was seeing. It was a man, dressed just like the commandos in the shows he watched. Dressed in black from head to toe, his face painted in camouflage paint and a knit wool balaclava, battle fatigues, combat boots, weapons and equipment harness, night-vision goggles finished out the ensemble. His name, though Jones didn't know it, was Lyman. He was the leader of the assault force.

The sight of a boy who barely looked like a teenager made the soldier wavier.

Wondering if this was a weird prank, or test that the teachers set up, Jones swung his legs over the back of the couch and padded bare foot towards the stranger.

"Hi," he said, unafraid. Jones knew he had nothing to fear in the mansion.

His eyes widened in stunned disbelief when, without a single word spoken, Lyman pulled his pistol from its holster and fired.

A sharp sting bit into Jones's neck, and he grabbed at it reflexively, pulling the dart out soon enough to recognize what it was, but not fast enough to halt the effects. He sank to the floor, eyes fluttering as the TV channels flickered so fast behind him that the screen almost looked like static.

Lyman used hand signals to direct the rest of the team forward. With wraithlike silence, they dispersed throughout the mansion.

* * *

Zen stepped back into a deeper shadow as one of the soldiers passed his position, unaware of the tiny assassin's observation. His first instinct was to kill the intruder, but he stayed his hand.

The man was familiar to him, not as an individual he'd met before, but his bearing, his weapons . . . his purpose. It was the same purpose that once drove him. Stryker, or some other shadow organizational head, had become aware of this enclave of mutants.

A glance at the stranger told Zen all he needed to know. Trank guns, smash and grab then. Good in some ways, worse in others. For an enclave of this size, they would have sent no fewer than three units, with air support on top of that. He could kill them, but the process would take too much time. Each soldier that failed to report in would be tallied, and he knew the tipping point would be reached before his task was finished.

Then the operation would shift from Smash and Grab, to Slash and Burn. The students would die, and the mansion would be burned to the ground. In the news, it would be a tragic fire, perhaps sparked by a gas leak. None of the reports would comment on the fact that each of the victims of the tragic fire had a bullet in their heads.

If Zen tried to take them down, the students would be slaughtered. This sort of operation was limited in scope. The students who got away from the property would be safe, what Zen had to focus on were the ones who didn't escape.

Closing his eyes, he took a slow breath and made his choice.

Zen's eyes widened, and his stance took on the pose of a curious child. "Hello?" The soldier spun on his heel, raising his weapon in the same instant. Zen forced his body to remain still, his face puzzled, as the dart bit into flesh. His last act was to suppress his power, allowing the drug to take effect.

* * *

Back in the kitchen, Logan struggled to fight off his growing fatigue. Even without X fighting every second for escape, the strain of being 'out' all the time wore on him. Pride kept him from going to Chuck and admitting the old bastard was right. Mostly because he understood what the next step was.

He'd have to let X out. Willingly let the monster out of the box. No matter how he tried, he couldn't get his mind around how that could be a good thing.  _That's because it isn't a good idea, it's a fucking terrible idea, I might as well light myself on fire while I'm at it. I'm sure it'll be just as healthy for me._

The thought made his skin twitch with phantom pain, and he fought back a snarl at the sensation. Like the dream, he knew it didn't come from him. Just another phantom memory of a time Logan wanted to keep in the blackness of forgetting. None of these little flashes were of good things, no eating steak or boffing Zen. Of course not, they were all lingering nightmares, like the odor of shallowly buried corpses.  _I don't want to know!_  He shouted into his mind at the feral.  _Keep your shitty memories to yourself._

Exhaustion dragged at his mind so that he appeared to be awake and carrying on a conversation, but he was mostly in a state of torpor. Even though his senses were exquisite, the mind interpreting the information was on auto piolet, limiting the input to the room around him and the stuttering boy across from him.

Together the pair drained the six pack, Logan downing four in a vain effort to wake up, and Bobby sipping on his second while picking through the remains of his ice cream for the last elusive chunks of cookie dough.

"My parents' think this is a prep school," Bobby blurted out to break the silence.

"Hey," Logan replied, amused that he was able to sound coherent since he was speaking through a mental haze that resembled a bank of pea-soup thick fog. "You know, lots of Prep schools have their own dorms, kitchens, and campus."

Bobby arched an eyebrow, an expression he'd recently perfected after hours spent practicing in front of a mirror. "Harrier jets? The  _Blackbird?"_

"So your school takes the right to bear arms to the extreme, it's a free country."

Stretching, Logan tilted his chair back until he'd established a balance so precarious Bobby thought he'd fall any second. He thought of saying something and then thought better of it. Logan was the sort who always knew what they were doing.

"So," Logan said, his eyes sharpening like a predator about to pounce. "Let's get back to you and Zen."

Bobby winced, he'd hoped Logan wouldn't bring it up again.

"It's not what you think." Logan's stony gaze made the next words come out in a rush. "You see, Kitty needed some help with Zen cuz she asked him about, er, well guy stuff. And of course, she wasn't equipped to deal with it. She came to me, and Zen and I had a talk about . . . stuff. Then he, well . . ." Bobby's words trailed off, not sure how to approach the next part of the story without getting cut to pieces by those terrifying claws.

"Well?" The low growl in the word made Bobby's legs tingle with the urge to flee for his life.

"Well, Zen had a boner, and he couldn't get rid of it, and I told him about masturbation. He couldn't figure it out, and he made me teach him, but I didn't touch him. I promise!" The words came out in a rush, so fast they were almost one, and almost impossible for Logan to follow.

_Zen . . . boner . . . masturbation . . . didn't touch . . ._

The words came together slowly in his exhausted mind, and his claws popped out without conscious thought. Bobby squeaked and held his hands up for mercy.

Then Logan froze, his eyes sharpened as all thoughts of Zen and the boy vanished from his mind. He wasn't listening to the boy anymore, nor were his wits dulled by exhaustion. He knew exactly what was happening, and was furious with himself for permitting it.

There was a small green dot on Bobby's forehead.

Bobby cried out in terror and leapt back as Logan's claws slashed out an inch from his face. A tiny ping sounded, and two halves of a dart fell into the abandoned ice cream.

The dot shifted targets as Logan erupted from his chair, too late for the intruder to realize his mistake. He'd been deceived by Logan's hunched form, assuming he was dealing with a pair of students.

He had a submachine gun, a Heckler & Koch MP5, and managed to squeeze off a round before Logan reached him. The bullet cut a burning path through the muscle of Logan's shoulder. The wound healed in the time it took him to reach the man and wrench the barrel upward as the intruder squeezed the trigger on full auto. Like a swarm of angry bees, the bullets punctured walls and ceiling. Bobby dove beneath the table, and the temperature in the room dropped painfully.

Without realizing it, Bobby released a cold so intense it obliterated all heat signatures in the room. High above, the remote observers were blind to the action.

Snarling, Logan ripped the gun from the other man's grasp. In the back of his mind, X demanded blood for the audacity of the intruder invading his territory. Logan fought the urge to tear into the soldier, not wanting to give into the blood lust. They traded punches, to no effect. During the scuffle, the man jerked a combat knife from its scabbard on his vest. He was bigger than Logan, and possibly stronger. The struggle gave the stranger the advantage of height and leverage, and he used both to push the gleaming blade towards Logan's left eye. The man's eyes flicked to the healed gash on Logan's shoulder, but he focused on the task: Kill the enemy.

Then the enemy's eyes shifted, reflecting the same flat, utterly merciless expression in Logan's eyes, and he know in that terrible moment it was over. He'd never had a chance, up until now, Logan had been trying to take him alive.

He heard a sharp  _snikt_  from the hand he couldn't see and felt an awful, ripping pain in his chest that reached all the way to his heart . . .

. . . and felt no more.

* * *

In the dream, sunlight baked her hair in warmth. She was in the stands and the Cubs were sweeping the Yankees for the World Series in straight shut outs. Sammy Sota made people forget Babe Ruth ever existed, and her mom and dad were there with her in front-row field – level seats. They were a family again, back the way she wanted. Kitty watched Derek Jetter whiff a fastball straight up into the air. The second the bat struck, she knew this one was for her, and she leapt to her feet, eyes on the ball, her glove poised to grab it.

But then she lost it in the glare of the sun. She squinted, like she'd been taught, but she couldn't filter out the vicious glare. For some reason, the sunlight had turned an alien green. Then she started to choke as a gloved hand clamped over the lower half of her face. Kitty lashed out at the fan, determined to catch the ball, but the emerald glare brightened unbearably, and high in the sky, next to the green and larger than she'd ever seen, was a gun.

Like a gum bubble blown too far, the dream popped and she came instantly awake, one part of her mind cataloging everything around her while her active consciousness came up to speed.

Kitty was in the room she shared with Theresa at Xavier's. It was still night time, and the lights were out, save for right around the pair of girls. They were no longer alone. Two huge men loomed over each girl. They wore combat gear, like in the war movies the boys liked to watch sometimes. Their guns had laser sights, not the red ones from the movies, but brilliant green. She recognized the light from her dreams.

Her heart skittered in her chest when the two men brought their pistols up to shoot.

Theresa screamed.

In terms of raw decibels, a military jet on full afterburners would have been quieter. The nightmarish sound covered the full range of the ultra-high frequency spectrum, and it slashed through surrounding ear drums like flaming shards of metal.

Glass shattered throughout the room. Not just mirrors and lightbulbs, but the lenses of the soldiers' lasers and their night vision goggles. Siryn lived up to her name, and beyond, generating a sound so powerful it overwhelmed the anechoic baffles built into the walls of the room to pretest the rest of the school from this eventuality.

Down the hall, along the boy's corridor, John flailed wildly against unseen enemies, flinging himself onto the floor. The same went for Marie and every other student in the school.

Anger flared in the groggy teens, unaware of the danger her cry heralded. Sure, the girl sounded terrified, but what else was new? Her room was soundproofed for a reason. It was also the reason Kitty was her roommate. With her phasing power, she could protect her delicate eardrums from the assault.

As for the assault team, they knew they'd lost the element of surprise. No more time for subtlety. It was time to shift into overdrive and use brute force to down the kids before they could gather their wits long enough to resist. The trouble was, even with their advanced ear protection, they were almost debilitated by the sound as their targets.

The difference was only a matter of moments, but those moments proved crucial.

As suddenly as the sound began, it cut out – Siryn ran out of breath. Before she could draw another lung full of air, the soldier snap-fired his dart gun. The effect of the drug was instantaneous, and she was unconscious before her body began to fall back into the warm nest of blankets.

Both men turned towards Kitty, who slammed her eyes shut as she pitched herself through the bed in a rushed dive that sent her staggering towards and through the floor and nearest wall. They couldn't target a mutant who no longer existed on this plane, and then it became mote as the door to the room slammed open, revealing the bare-chested Peter Rasputin.

Peter's elder brother served in the Russian Air Force, part of the Federation space program, and many of the neighbors' sons served their tour in Afghanistan. He knew a soldier when he saw one, and he knew how to handle himself when trouble came knocking.

Spotting the soldiers turning their guns toward him, Peter triggered his own mutation. In the doorway, before their disbelieving eyes, the teen grew, becoming too massive for the opening. His pajama shorts, which were stretchy for a reason, stretched to the breaking point to accommodate the growth. The wooden floor beneath his feet groaned as his mass increased to match his new size. Along with the size shift, his skin changed both texture and color, taking on the sheen of chrome. More importantly, his flesh took on the density of metal, transforming completely into organic armor that possessed the tensile strength of steel.

Gun metal eyes flashed as they took in the sight of Siryn sprawled out on her bed. He turned that frightening stare to the commandos, who reflexively grabbed their machine guns.

No one heard the shots, muffled by silencers and the soundproofing of Siryn's room. The doctored walls also protected the other students from stray fire, stopping the bullets.

Peter's code name was Colossus, and with strength that could rival his namesake, he put both men right through the wall and out into the hallway.

Colossus exited a second later with Siryn cradled in his steely grip. Voices echoed up and down the hallways, a confused jumble of students and commandos, then he heard the pounding of feet, bare, not booted. He turned down another corridor and found a pair of young students cowering in one of the alcoves. Painful light speared the window beyond them, and the glass exploded inward under the force of the downdraft form the rotors of a Sikorsky AH-64 Apache attack helicopter as it took position right outside the building.

The students were pinned under the light, frozen by its frightening glare, unsure if the light would be followed by a hail of bullets. Colossus reacted first, leaping forward to insert his heavy frame between the window and the children. Briefly, he wondered if his tough flesh would be a match the impact of depleted-uranium "tank buster" shells from the Apache's fearsome 30mm chain gun. That monster could shoot right through the mansion, punching holes as big as he was as if it were made of rice paper.

" _Come on!"_ he shouted, and cursed himself when the kids looked at him without understanding. In all the excitement, he forgot to speak English.

"Come on!" he repeated, gesturing for the nearest set of stairs. "Go, go, go!"

Behind them, the light didn't move, but that provided little solace. Peter spotted at least three more from directions that told him the mansion was surrounded.


	32. Scattered

**Chapter Thirty-Two –** **Scattered**

"If you want to get out alive  
Whoa-oh, run for your life."

Three Days Grace,  _Get Out Alive_

* * *

Blood pattered to the floor as the body fell. Bobby stared wide eyed at the dead man, refusing to move, to breath, to think. If he could pretend he didn't exist hard enough, maybe Logan would forget he was here.

Bobby stared at the growing puddle of crimson; his gaze flicking back and forth from the blood to the empty face. He'd never seen anything like this in real life. It was nothing like the movies, and even news stories blurred out the gory bits if they showed vids. On TV, the images were just that, images without tangible impact.

But he'd heard the low woof of the man's breath when Logan struck and knew with terrible finality that the man would never draw another. He'd seen the tension flow out of the man's body until he had no more substance than a rag doll, worse, so much worse, he'd watched Logan's face change while it happened. Saw the humanity drain away, replaced with something out of nightmares. Logan's feral eyes held no mercy, and Bobby wished he was in bed at home, cradled in the everlasting security of his mother's arms while she sang him to sleep with a tune she'd made up for him alone.

Something hot dripped onto his hand, and Bobby jumped slightly, only to realize he was crying. Shame burned in his chest at showing such weakness, yet he was thankful it was his body's only instinctive reaction. Part of him knew that if he ran now, Logan would be on him. There would be no thinking involved. Just pure instinct of a predator chasing prey.

The tears blurred his vision, and as he swiped at them with the back of his hand, he saw only the body of the soldier. Logan was gone.

* * *

The sweetly bitter tang of copper filled the air, a perfume as familiar to him as IX's sweet aroma. X drew in a lung full of air, tasting the mixed flavors of the intruders on his territory, and the frozen scent that made his hackles rise.

X dropped to his knees and studied the silent wide eyed youth, the one who dared encroach on his mate.

* * *

 _Shit!_ Logan had been pushed back, but not far. All their shared senses were open to him, and he could almost feel the liquid glide of alien thoughts rubbing sides with his own. He knew X wouldn't be forgiving.

Pain lanced through him when he tried to take control, and found to his horror, he couldn't. X locked him out of their shared flesh, and he'd have to watch him kill the kid. Which in turn would result in Xavier liquefying their brains. Perfect. Just perfect.

 _IX!_ Logan shouted in their mind as X reached out and grabbed the front of Bobby's shirt. With a low grunt, he jerked the trembling boy from his hiding spot and held him aloft.  _You can't hurt a student, you yielded to IX, and that was his order. If you kill Bobby, he'll destroy us both._

The words buzzed relentlessly in X's mind, as irritating as a nest of wasps. But . . . he recalled being trapped, and knowing with cold certainty that IX would have tested his fire against X's healing. Could his power overcome IX's? He didn't know, and wasn't willing to find out.

Gritting his teeth in a savage snarl, he dropped the youth.

_Let me out. We have to protect the students._

No, that he wouldn't do. X gave the corpse at their feet a pointed look. If Logan had his way, the invader would still be alive. Clearly X was the better choice when it came to defending the young.

X looked down at the trembling child and huffed at him. Bending down he put his face in front of the boy and drew a long breath, scenting him for injuries.

* * *

 _I'm going to die, I'm going to die, I'm going to die._ The useless thought continued looping through Bobby's head as he hung suspended from Logan's grip.

No, not Logan.  _Oh God, I'm going to die._ X. The students all knew about Logan's duality, but only Peter had seen this side of the man, and even he'd barely survived to tell about it. And by the horrifying look on the feral's face, Bobby doubted he'd get away with his flesh intact.

Then some of the fury drained out of X's face, and Bobby fell. His legs were so weak they gave out when his feet touched the floor, and all he could do was huddle there hoping Logan regained control. Maybe he'd get lucky and some more soldiers would come distract X.  _Better them than me,_ his mind jabbered.

His eyes were clenched shut as he waited for claws to tear him to pieces. The thought of using his power against X didn't even enter his frightened mind. A soft huffing sound snapped his eyes open and he squawked when his vision filled with X's face. He jerked back, choking on his own spit when he tried to both inhale and scream at the same time.

The feral snorted at him before standing and grabbing him again. This time the grip was gruffly gentle, pulling him to his feet. At least the rage seemed to be gone, though Bobby wasn't sure what to make of the silent, intense figure studying him.

With another low huff, X turned and started for the door, only to stop and look back at Bobby with narrow eyes. The ice teen swallowed hard, but trotted after X. Sure, it was probably suicide to follow him, but a final look at the dead man on the floor proved who was stronger and maybe keeping X between him and the rest of the bastards trying to take them over would be a good idea.

_And maybe I've finally lost my marbles._

The pair moved quickly through the halls, and Bobby couldn't tell if they were trying to escape or rescue the others. X wasn't speaking, and Bobby was reluctant to question the killer personality type. If he annoyed the feral too much, he'd end up in his own pool of blood. All around them, the sound of booted feet echoed, mingling with shouted orders with the shrill screams of the students acting as a morbid counterpoint to the whole nightmare.

Bobby thought he heard shooting in the distance, then a sound like a wrecking ball slamming through one of the walls. Suddenly, at the short hallway leading to the servants' back stairs, X stopped. An arm like a steel band shot out, forcing Bobby to stop too. The feral gave him a pointed low growl, and Bobby swallowed. "Um, stay here?" he questioned. X snorted at him, and after another long look he turned and charged.

Even after the sight of the dead man in the kitchen, Bobby couldn't stop his curious feet from inching forward for a peak. Yielding to the temptation left him more terrified than ever before.

Two soldiers were carrying Jones down the stair way. Another pair waited at the bottom. X transformed the scene into a blood bath. Adamantium claws tore through the heavily armored men like a butcher's knife through a lamb's carcass. The devastation was so swift, only one man had time enough to scream, a sound that cut off in a wet tearing sound that almost made Bobby throw up.

Bobby bit his lower lip, struggling to keep his stomach down and fighting his own indecision. There was nothing he could do to help X, except freeze everyone in place, but that would freeze X too. What would he do if more bad guys showed up?

Still, he refused to sit on the side lines any more, like he had in the kitchen. One of the school's mottos – written and unwritten – was that the older kids looked out for the youngers.

Not thinking about his actions, that would have frozen him more surely than his power, he lunged across the hallway straight towards the servants' elevator, expecting the agonizing burn of a bullet in his back with every step. He was so out of breath when he made it, and squeezed so hard against the recessed alcove, that when the door hissed open behind him, he tumbled back onto the floor and almost couldn't get up again.

At the other end of the hall, X ignored the sharp sting of anesthetic darts, whose cocktail did nothing to slow him down. Above him, still perched on the stairs, one of the men holding Jones took aim with his side arm. The 10mm automatic got off five shots before the gun, and the hand holding the gun, were reduced to glistening fragments by X's wicked claws.

X never stopped moving. Finally, after being locked away for so long, he was in his element. The only thing missing was IX. The thought was almost enough to cause him to abandon the fight and seek out the tiny male, but IX didn't need his help. The humans were easy prey, and he'd want him to tend to the students above all else. And attacking felt so good. He was a born scrapper, and in a crowd like this, the advantage was all his. Every man he faced was the enemy, whereas the soldiers had to take care not to strike down their comrades. If they'd been smart, they would have withdrawn and tried to cut him down using automatic weapons or explosives, but the small confines of the hallway hampered their maneuvers. There wasn't time for anything fancy, instead they had to rely on reflex and training.

But their training hadn't prepared them for taking down something like X.

He didn't flinch away from their bullets or knives. The wounds healed almost as fast as they were made. By contrast, the blades that were a part of X's very body tore through body armor, flesh and bone with equal fervor.

The fight only lasted a minute or two longer. When it was over, X stood among a ragged circle of bodies, covered in blood; both his own and the enemies. A dart sticking out of his left shoulder caught his eye, and his lips curled with distain as he pulled it free.

Stepping out of the circle of death, he padded silently over to the fallen student. X bent down and sniffed the boy, smelling the bitter tang of sedatives. He plucked a dart out of the boy's scrawny throat before he tossed the limp child over one shoulder. X didn't bother looking for Bobby, scent told him the elder boy had gone, hearing told him the elevator was engaged, and scent would mark which floor he'd departed on.

X took the stairs two at a time. His senses also gave him a clear picture of the enemies numbers and movements. There was no time to waste, and no margin for error. IX flitted through his mind briefly, but he pushed the thought away. They'd meet up during or after the operation, he didn't doubt that for a second.

On the third floor, Bobby stumbled out into chaos. Younger kids, and a few older ones, were panicking as wind howled over the roof and windows around them.  _I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blooow your house down,_  the thought made a hysterical giggle escape Bobby's lips before he could hold it back. Only bricks wouldn't be enough to keep this wolf out of their home. That was a sobering thought.

One of the students screamed that the glass was going to shatter; another fell to his knees howling in terror that the plane was going to crash through the wall and bring the mansion down on all their heads. Helicopters seemed to hang like bloated spiders outside the windows, using their million-plus candlepower spot lamps to light up the interior of the house in absolutes of black and white. The intense glare forced the mutant children to close their eyes or risk permanent sight loss.

Reaching out, Bobby grabbed the first student his hand encountered. It turned out to be John Allardyce.

"What the fuck's happening," John bellowed between harsh racking coughs. Somewhere along the way, he'd inhaled more than a lung full of smoke, and didn't care for the choking feeling. Smoke without fire was useless to the flame mutant.

"Guys with guns," Bobby hissed. That's all he knew for certain, and he didn't want to muddy things with speculation.

"No shit, Sherlock. We got a war here, we're being invaded!"

"But we're a  _school_ ," Bobby protest.

"Yeah? Go tell them that!"

"Come on, we've gotta help the kids."

"Peter's up ahead. They're rallying around him."

"John, where's Rogue? Have you seen her?"

"I don't know. Man, I didn't see you until you grabbed me."

"I'm going to find her."

John started to protest, but Bobby was already two rooms down the hall. In truth, he didn't want to follow. There was no benefit playing  _stupid_  hero under these insane circumstances, but the thought that Bobby might think of him as a coward was something he liked even less. The fact that Bobby would never think such a thing didn't enter John's frazzled mind.

 _Anyway, someone has to keep the idiot alive._ Survival was one of John's strongest suits, and Bobby could use a little common sense right now.

Grumbling under his breath, John began shoving through the horde of frightened students.

Beneath him, the floor trembled from the approach of a Sikorsky Blackhawk. It hovered a dozen feet above the roof, and another assault team repelled down. The gloves had come off. Shotgun blasts and shaped-charge grenades blasted out the skylight windows, causing shock waves to stun everyone in the rooms below.

A swarm of troopers filled the hall like sharks, falling on the students as if they were a ball of baitfish. One shot a taser at a young Asian girl. The twin wires lodged in her back, and electricity poured down the lines. To his shock, Jubilation Lee didn't collapse. Instead, she pivoted on her foot, dropped into a shooting stance of her own with her right arm outstretched, and shot that jolt of electricity back at the man. The blast slammed into the soldier with the blazing force of a semi, flinging him back into the wall so hard he left an indent of his body deep enough to keep him suspended in midair. Out of the darkness, a soft pop sounded, and a dart flew true. Jubilee fell, unconscious before she hit the ground.

In the neighboring wing, Peter slammed on fist against a wooden panel, forcing open a hidden door. A passage and stairwell lit at set intervals by emergency glow globs was revealed. He handed Siryn off to one of the older students as he began waving the group through. Speed was vital to their escape. He knew he had to clear the corridor before any of the intruders discovered their method of exit.

A sharp growl made his metallic skin twitch. Turning, he faced a figure half his size, one who'd almost killed him once before. Every muscle in his enhanced body tensed for the attack before his mind registered the limp form hanging over one of X's shoulders. Without speaking or attacking, the feral stopped on front of him, shrugged his shoulder to slide the boy down, and handed him over.

"I can help you," Colossus blurted out.

X's lip pealed back in a dark snarl, and his burning eyes flicked from him to the frightened students huddled in the opening of the wall. The message was clear, and Colossus wasn't willing to push his luck. After all, IX wasn't here to cage X if he decided to go ape shit again.

Freezing at a junction in the hallway, X studied the set of dancing green targeting lasers on the opposite wall. X waited for a moment before he stepped out of sight around the corner. The lasers went out, and Peter heard a couple sharp grunts, followed by the low thud of bodies hitting the floor. Again his skin twitched with the memory of those sharp claws. Not willing to risk being on the business end of those blades again, he rushed the last few students into the gap and slid it shut behind them. He had his responsibilities, and he wouldn't abandon them.

Kitty didn't waste time with doors. It wasn't like she needed them. As intangible as a ghost, she raced through the mansion, down the main floor, where she found more soldiers . . .

. . . through one of the class rooms, more soldiers . . .

. . . through the arboretum, more soldiers . . .

. . . through the billiard room where Cyclops would shoot nine ball using his optic blasts instead of a pool cue, more soldiers . . .

. . . through the hallway beyond and right through the body of one of the intruders before either realized the other was there.

Kitty's mutation permitted her to slide the molecules of her own body through the valences of other physical objects. The process was so fast that it had no effect on the molecular cohesion of the nonorganic solids, any more than the passage of baseline humans affected the air they moved through every day. Or, more accurately in Kitty's case, the vast emptiness of the space between electrons.

The same couldn't be said for electrical fields. Whenever Kitty phased through something that utilized electricity, it would have a power skitz, causing a blink when it came to household wiring, and leading to the occasional disaster for computers. She was instant death to hard drives.

There was another effect that she and Xavier had begun to explore, and that related to the fact that the human body's central nervous system utilized electricity to function. It ran on one supremely powerful biological computer. If Kitty phased through a person, she caused a similar shock to their systems as she did to other electronics. The consequences depended on how quickly she moved through the person and which part of the body was impacted.

For the soldier, it was akin to jamming a fork into a light socket. His world blazed white, the same way people who've been struck by lightning and survive reported, and for an instant afterward, that's what he thought happened. In truth, he wasn't sure what happened. The vague memory of a girl popping out of a wall before disappearing through his chest flashed in the white light.

Even with his body still tingling from the attack, he managed to twist around and snap of a taser round at the child. It was a beautiful shot, especially factoring in the circumstances. He caught her right between the shoulder blades – only the prongs didn't bite into living flesh at all. Instead they lodged themselves into the wall of the house at the very spot the girl vanished through.

Upstairs, Rogue shooed another girl out from under a bed, adding her to her growing collection. She'd been terrified of course, huddled under the false safety of the bed like a small animal trusting the close comfort of a burrow to protect it from the fox's questing paws. Maria found herself wishing desperately for a power more appropriate to the situation. Something like Cyclops's eye beams, or Storms command of the weather. She wasn't picky; all she wanted was something to even the odds or something that could rip the gunships out of the sky.

"Come on, sweetling," she whispered in her best baby-sitter voice, offering strength and calm she didn't feel as she cuddled the trembling child, careful not to let the girl touch bare skin. Now she was glad her curiosity of the hidden passages could pay off. When she'd first learned of them, she was enchanted and spent more than one summer day exploring. Now all those hours spent alone were paying off. The passages enabled her to elude pursuit and scoot her share of students to safety.

"In you go, girls," she whispered, "just like Storm taught us, Kay?"

The small girl in her arms clung like a limpet, soft whimpers stirred her hair. Rogue was her lifeline, and the thought of letting her go was beyond terrifying. Rogue didn't have time to coddle the girl, the longer they stayed, the greater the chance one of the soldiers or patrolling helicopters would spot her secret.

"Aren't you coming?" one of the other girls asked. She was a Scots redhead of barely thirteen named Rahne Sinclair.

"There's someone I have to find first," Rogue confided. With a brilliant Highlander grin, Rahne pried the other girl's hands loose from Rogue's neck, and offering reassurances of her own, she led the way into the secret passage.

"When you get out of the tunnels," Rogue called after them, "run straight to the first house you find. Tell them there was a fire. Tell them to get ahold of your folks. Whatever you do, don't tell anyone you're a mutant. Understood?"

The girl gave an uncomprehending nod, but Rahne know the score. She'd take care of her classmate and ensure she kept her mouth shut. Rogue slid forward and brushed a wisp of hair off the younger girl's face. In return, she got a trembling attempt at a smile.

"Okay," she whispered.

"You'll be alright," Rogue promised before closing the hidden door behind them.

Standing, she half ran the length of the hallway. The walls, floor, and the very air trembled again as the helicopters made another run on the mansion. Rogue knew she'd have to take cover soon before she got nailed herself.

Through the mind numbing chaos, Rogue caught the sound of someone she'd thought would be long gone by now.

"Rogue," called John Allardyce.

"Rogue!" Bobby bellowed, determined to make himself heard over the noise.

"Bobby," she shouted back, trying to pick out where the shouts were coming from. The rush of delight and relief at the sound of his voice startled her.

Rounding a corner, she found the pair of boys. "There anyone else?" she asked, pushing the unexpected feelings away in favor of taking care of business.

"I'm not sure," Bobby responded.

"Petey Pureheart was looking after a crowd of kids," John said. "Outside of them, nada. Bad guys galore though."

"Where's Logan?" Rogue demanded. "He was s'posed to be looking after us."

Bobby's face twisted alarmingly.

"What happened?" she asked. "Where is he?" Rouge didn't like thinking too much about Logan, and how she'd accidentally imprinted on him,  _No on X,_ when her power drained his to heal her after the feral destroyed Magneto's machine. Most of the frightening memories had faded over time.

"He was fighting the soldiers down stairs."

Nodding her understanding, Rogue said, "this way." She planned on leading them to one of the secret passage opening. But, before she could move, another one of the brilliant spot lights blazed through one of the windows. Shielding their eyes against the painful glow, Rogue thought she saw two shapes hanging in front of the glass. Leaping forward, she grabbed John, Bobby grabbed Rogue, and together they tumbled around the corner in a heap just in time to escape the explosion. Shards of glass flew through the hall in a deadly rain. On the heels of the blast came the soldiers, target lasers cutting through the smoke, fingers ready on the triggers. Every door they passed got the same hellish treatment: shotgun blasts to the hinges followed by a shot from a battering ram to punch it open, a pair of stun grenades to incapacitate anyone inside, followed by sustained bursts form the submachine guns to finish the job. Each room took a few seconds to clear, and they did the job with icy, methodical precision.

Without comment, the three decided they didn't want to know what would happen to them if found now. When the soldiers rounded the corner, the kids were long gone.

* * *

In the sky above the mansion, the technicians minding the sensor consoles were beyond irritated. When the incursion began, they'd had a clear sense of the mansion's interior and knew the location of every warm body in the place.

Now, less than five minutes into the operation, nothing was certain.

Soldiers were down all across the board with varying degrees of injury, and more than a few deaths. Worse, they'd lost contact with a majority of their intended targets. It didn't take a master strategist to determine the reason: the mansion possessed multiple sections that were shielded against remote sensing and imagery. The only way to clear the place out would mean locating the access points and sending teams into the tunnels. Given the parameters of the mission, that option was unviable. The only other option would be an attempt to widen their net and attempt to capture the mutants as they emerged from the tunnels. But that would deplete their resources with little chance of success.

Barring a miracle, the children who escaped the mansion were safe from capture.

Unaware of this reasoning, Peter lead his party into one of the long tunnels burrowed deep beneath the estate. The exit was located in a thick stand of woods outside Xavier's property line, within a nature reserve. He didn't know what would happen when they reached the woods, or if the soldiers had formed a perimeter out that far. All he could focus on was getting the children, and himself, out of danger and to a place where strangers wouldn't chase or threaten them with guns. He needed a chance to breath, time to gather his scattered thoughts and take stock of the current situation. Of the ultimate outcome, he had little doubt.

Terrible as things were now, he knew they would work out all right.

If Bobby and John were privy to the large teen's thoughts, they would have given him an earful. For them, as they hurried with Rouge down a flight of stairs, the natural order of things was from bad to worse.

The mansion was alive with troopers, and from the horrifying sounds they heard all around them, they knew the men weren't using tranquilizer guns anymore. No, they were using bullets now, and they weren't being stingy with the ammunition.

Rogue skidded to a halt so fast that the two boys crashed into her back. Harsh words were formed, but remained trapped behind their teeth.

The sight in front of them froze the words before they could take shape.

She stood amid a pile of shredded bodies, all soldiers.

"This is old news," Bobby whispered, as if the dead men might hear him and stir. "We can't stay here, we're sitting ducks."

Instead of answering, she didn't move a muscle. Bobby inched forward reluctantly, he wasn't sure his mind was up to processing some new horror. Couldn't he be done for the night? He'd had his quota of gore for one lifetime.

Looking at her, he saw that she was looking down at her chest. It was painted with little green dots. Swallowing hard, he followed the eerie beams to their source, and found a team of soldiers in the far doorway, their weapons leveled at the small group.

They never got a chance to fire, X saw to that.

He was poised on the gallery above them, and with a primal roar, more animal than human, he dropped down on them like a hunting panther out of a tree onto the backs of an unsuspecting gazelle herd.

The soldiers, in spite of their training, froze in the face of the descending feral. Lethal claws separated heads from bodies, arms from shoulders, and spilled guts in a blood frenzy. Bobby found he couldn't watch this time any more than he could the last.

Rogue didn't turn away. At the sight of him, she recognized X. He was a part of her now, and would be forever. The same as anyone else she imprinted. Her own fists flexed, and she felt the faint echo of the wild untamed creature before her.

Something caught the corner of her eye, and she glanced to the side. A small, secret smile danced on John's face. The hungry look in his eye made her sad and scared for him. John enjoyed the show, and wanted a piece of the action. It would be fun.

Light pierced the entrance form outside and above, pinning X in their beams as the helicopters responded to the frantic calls for help down below. They didn't wait for orders. The second they had a target, they opened fire, pockmarking the lawn with craters and shattering the stone entrance to the mansion to power. But their target wasn't there anymore.

X came at them with a bloody snarl on his lips. He waved his hands at them, like a woman shooing chickens as he herded them deeper into the mansion.

John found the closes escape hatch, opened the door, and leapt into the safe passage with Bobby on his heels. Rogue held back. Imprinting on X left a lingering residue of X's enhanced senses, and she heard the soldiers closing in on them from all sides.

"X," she hissed.

Turning, he roughly pushed her through the opening.

"X," she pleaded.

Without responding, he slammed the door in her face. And she was glad.

X drew in a long breath, savoring the scent of blood and war unfolding around him. There were at least twenty close at hand, and he put his back against the wall, standing between the enemy and the students. Only a dozen lasers caressed his chest, but they didn't fire. He didn't care.

Unleashing both sets of claws, he gave a low guttural snarl, but their fire discipline held. No triggers were pulled.

He threw his head back with a wild roar, wanting to goad them into attacking.

"X? Is that you?"

A figure approached through the darkness, and the familiar sound of one of his keepers froze the feral. His mind locked as endless, agonizing conditioning attempted to reassert itself.

 _No! You will not crawl back to him like a whipped dog,_ Logan shouted at the feral.

The man moved closer still, and the soldiers moved apart reluctantly. He was important to them, but also the man in charge. They couldn't refuse.

_Kill him!_

"So, here's where you've been hiding."

The shift was so sudden, Logan almost staggered. Instead of trying to fight two battles, X retreated allowing him to control the flesh again. He straightened from the predatory crouch and gave the old bastard a sharp toothed grin.

"Not X anymore asshole."

Stryker studied the weapon for a long moment as understanding washed over him. IX must have been killed attempting to take this place, and with a telepath as strong as Xavier. Well, the results weren't entirely unexpected. He'd never trusted the mind washing technology anyway. It was one of the reasons he'd developed his new treatments, allowing uncooperative mutants to be harnessed far easier.  _Perhaps I'll be able to bring this one to heel as well._

On the opposite side of the wall, Rogue stood frozen in the entrance to the secret passage, ashamed of the surge of emotion that burned her when X closed the door. How could she feel happy that he stayed behind? Perhaps it was because she held the echo of the berserker rage and madness that lived in his. It made her want to run away from him, an urge more powerful than any she'd felt before. But, true to her name, she defied expectations. She spit in their eye. X would have done the same, but this response was hers alone, and that, too, was why she stayed. They were kindred, but not kind.

Hands gripped her arms, trying to pull her away. She shook them off.

"Stop," she told the boys, who stared at her in utter disbelief. "We've got to do something."

"Damn straight!" John hissed. "Run like hell while we've got the chance!"

"But they'll kill him!"

The argument fell on deaf ears. They'd seen X in action, and neither believed such an outcome possible.

"Yeah, right," John snorted. "He can handle it. Come on, let's book."

"Bobby," Rogue turned her pleading eyes on him, and he felt his will begin to buckle in the face of her desperation. " _Please!_  They're going to kill him." The part of her that still resonated with him whispered that was something he might desire.

All Bobby knew was that X was the most terrifying creature he'd ever encountered. He was every nightmarish boggle come to life, and if he never saw the man again, he'd be haunted by the memories of this night until his dying day. In a way, he blamed X for everything that happened tonight. He and IX came to the mansion to kill Remy. Now this. They were a walking invitation of disaster, and nothing good could come with sticking with him.

 _Leave him, let him make his own way._ That was the wise thing to do. What he'd wanted them to do.

Stryker took a single step closer, and the men behind him shifted to ensure that his body didn't block their line of sight. A twitch from him would be their cue to unleash hell on the mutant with enough firepower to turn anyone into hamburger. A second man, with the stiff stance of an officer, put aside his rife and positioned himself to be able to grab, and pull, Stryker out of the way if things went south. Given all Lyman saw of X's handiwork, he feared it was a forlorn hope. Still, he'd try. His job was to look after Stryker and most likely die with him.

Logan's sharp eyes spotted the action, and he knew loyalty like that couldn't be bought. His estimation of the other men rose a notch.

X's retreat told him more of how dangerous the stranger in front of him was. Even though he didn't have the memories, he felt X's conflicting emotions, and instinctually knew that this man once held his leash.  _And IX's too, shit._ For the first time that night, he was glad he hadn't found Zen. Even X almost fell back into the habit of obedience, how would the tiny order minded assassin fair? He didn't know, and silently prayed he wouldn't find out.

 _Kill them._  But his skin was already slick with the soldiers blood, and he couldn't risk them opening fire on him and hitting the wall behind him. He could smell the stupid children crouched behind him. They should have run when they had the chance. If the bullets flew, they'd be turned into Swiss cheese.

"I must admit," Stryker said, carrying on the eerily incongruous conversation. "This is the last place I thought I'd ever see you. When the pair of you failed to return, I assumed you'd been destroyed. Still, I didn't think Xavier was taking in animals." He paused, letting the barb sink in. "Even animals as . . . unique as you."

"Who are you?" He growled, not caring, but not wanting to move the dance forward until the kids were safely out of the way.

"Don't you remember?" Stryker asked.

Logan blinked, watching as a strange mist began to fill the air between him and Stryker. The temperature plummeted so fast that the first breath was normal, and the second came in a bellowing cloud of icy condensation.

On the opposite side of the mist, Stryker stretched out a hand, only to encounter a gleaming wall of ice that divided the hall from floor to ceiling, wall to wall, forming a protective shield between Logan and Stryker. The men around him shifted uneasily, like a field of wheat stirred by the wind, worried that they might become locked in the ice. But none broke ranks.

Logan thought about using his claws to destroy the wall. Letting the man live was a danger everything in him rebelled against. But first, the little brats needed to be dealt with.

The dark look on Logan's face forced John back a step, and made Bobby glad he was already inside the passage with one hand pressed against the wall so he could generate and sustain the ice shield. Unlike the boys, Rogue didn't flinch or back down. She met his eye with a will and stubbornness to match his own.

"Come on, Logan." She said.

"Get out of here, girl. I'll be fine." The tone in his voice was the one that had always gotten results before, but did nothing to budge the teenage girl.

"But we won't." Then, more quietly, "please?"

Stryker didn't know what was happening. The barrier was transparent enough for him to discern X's shape, and that he was no longer alone, but held just enough opaqueness to hide how many had joined him, or who they were.

With swift decisiveness, he plucked a penetrator grenade from Lyman's harness and slammed it into the ice. Lyman jerked him back, and turned, shielding his commander with his own body. In the seconds before detonation, the other troopers shielded themselves as best they could. The shockwave reverberated through the confined space, partially deafening the men closest to the blast. All the troopers felt like they'd been pummeled by jackhammers. The explosion shattered the ice wall, filling the air with frozen shrapnel.

When the smoke cleared, all that remained were scattered chunks of ice littering the floor and partially burying some of the unlucky men who'd been too close to the blast.

The other side of the hall was empty. Of X, and those he'd seen with him, there was no sign.

John led the way down the tunnels, even though Logan's senses were keener. Though the boys wouldn't admit it out loud to save their lives, they both preferred having him between them and the soldiers.

When they reached the first junction, John struck off to the left.

"John, no," Bobby hissed at the other boy's back.

"But this is the way Petey and the others went."

Bobby grinned. "I have a better idea. This way."

The ice teen took the lead, and brought them to his chosen destination: the garage. Like everything about the Mansion, there was a public space and a private one. In the garage above them was the usual pack of SUVs and vans, plus the Professor's vintage Rolls-Royce. The hidden garage held vehicles more in line with the X-Men, than the cover of a school, including Scott's collection of motorcycles. Some of the vehicles looked normal, while others were as unique and enhanced as the  _Blackbird._

Tonight, they chose a sports car, brilliantly quick, but so well designed and balanced that it could navigate the local roads – whose winding narrow paths would have defeated a lesser vehicle. While space was limited, it would be able to fit them all.

John slid into the driver's seat with a smug grin. "I'm driving."

Without missing a beat, Logan jerked the kid out of the car as if he weighed nothing. "In your dreams wise-ass," he growled. "Boys in the back."

Rogue took shotgun, and Bobby make sure to slide in place behind her.

"This is Scott's car," he commented.

"Oh, yeah?" Logan didn't sound impressed.

"We don't have keys."

Logan's lips twisted in a half grin, half snarl. One of his claws hissed free. He jabbed the blade through the ignition, expertly twisted some wires, got a spirt, got a start, and off they went.

Like the secret passages in the walls, there was an emergency exit for the vehicles, granting them direct access to Graymalkin Lane, the road that wandered along the estate's border. Taking a left, they headed towards interstate 684, linking New York City with the main east-west highway – i-84—which bisected Connecticut and the southern tier of New York State. A right took them into the heart of Fairfield Country, endless woodland roads so twisted and poorly signed that even the locals had the tendency to lose their way. It was hilly country which dropped into little ravines and hollows, making it difficult to stay connected to the radio and played hell with cell phone reception.

Logan unleashed the car and, almost like a living beast, it leap free. He took turns at whiplash speeds, making the three teens scramble into their seatbelts to keep from being throw around the small vehicle. He drove without the benefit of headlights.

"Uh," Bobby choked, having to clear his throat before trying again. "Maybe slow down, just a little?"

"Like hell," John snapped. "Go faster, dude, get us the hell away from here,  _please!_ " he finished in savage mimicry of Rogue's plea, both to Bobby and to Logan himself. "Jesus wept," he said, more to himself than anyone else. "What the fuck was that back there?"

The low groan of the steering wheel drew Rogue's eye. She saw the muscles strain in Logan's arms as he gripped the wheel.

"Stryker," he spat, the name of the man ghosting up from memories not his own. "His name is Stryker."

"Who is he?" Rogue dared to ask.

Logan's lips stretched in a wry grimace, and he shook his head. "I can't know for certain, but I believe he used to be X and IX's handler."

Silence filled the small car at the admission.  _I know it, I knew this was his fault_ , Bobby thought, but didn't quite have the guts to say out loud. The last thing they needed was for X to retake control while driving at mind numbing speeds in the dark down roads that could easily end in their fiery deaths. But somehow, he knew all this was their fault. Stryker must have found out where they'd gone, and came to collect them.

He shook his head, unable to ignore the fact that man had been surprised to see him.  _No, he hadn't expected Logan to be there, and he'd been shocked that it was Logan, and not X._ On top of that, he knew the school was Xavier's.

Logan shifted gears, and heard a sharp yelp from John when his elbow clipped the kid's cheek.

"What's your problem, kid?" he grumbled as John wriggled his head and arm between the front seats, reaching for the center console.

"What are you doing?" Rogue demanded in a sharp tone that indicated she'd been pushed too far and was ready to do damage to the first reasonable target that presented itself.

"Too much silence. Majorly uncomfortable. Don't like it."

Stretching forward that last inch, he pressed a button and the speakers roared to life with what passed for music in the form of a techno band none of them had ever heard of and, after the first ear shattering seconds, didn't want to. Even though the car's sound system was as lovingly crafted as the vehicle itself, the choice of CDs was beyond demented, inspiring impassioned and derogatory comments galore form the kids.

Logan refrained from joining the junior commentary. His own tastes ran towards roadhouse R&B and classic jazz, with one exception he'd never been able to understand, an affinity for Japanese  _koto._

Scott, being the ultimate geek, built a sound system that only he could comprehend. None of the controls were marked, and it probably came with a manual that could dwarf the Empire State Building. The more buttons John pushed to try and put a stop to the awful music, the louder it seemed to get. On the ragged edge of ending their torment with a swipe of his claws, the boy managed to hit the eject button. Only the switch had nothing to do with music. Instead, a small tray hissed open, revealing a strange oval-shaped metal disk about the same size as a wallet.

Growling under her breath, Rogue pressed another button on the counsel, and blessed silence enveloped the car once more, accented with the low hum of the engine and the flirting of the wind whispering past.

She and Logan shared a glance, and he offered her a silent thank you for ending their torment, while she thanked him in turn for his forbearance. Her fist was tightly clenched, the same way he held it when he engaged his claws. If she'd had claws to match the residue of X's personality and powers, John would have been sashimi ages ago.

John was oblivious to their silent communications, too entranced by his new toy to pay attention. He found another button and pressed it, revealing a two-way communication devise.

"Guys," he said, "I don't think this has anything to do with the CD player."

Reaching out, Logan plucked it from the kid's hand. John's survival instincts were still locked in overdrive, and he didn't protest as Logan examined the object. Whatever the infuriating idiosyncrasies of the car's sound system, this at least made some sense to him.

"So, where we going?" John asked.

"Storm and Jean are in Boston," Logan replied tersely. "We'll head in that direction."

"My folks live in Boston." Bobby admitted.

"Good," said Logan.

Rogue let the conversation flow unnoticed around her. All her focus locked on Logan's hands, and the way the skin up to both wrists was dyed in what could have been mistaken for dried paint. The viscus substance was caked a layer or two more thickly between the knuckles, where the claws retreated into their housings. Her eyes saw far more than she wanted, and her sense of smell offered more than she could bear. Looking down at her own hands, she wondered how her sleeping gloves had gotten so shredded.  _Too much skin showing,_ she thought numbly,  _I'll have to take care not to touch anyone._ Her hands trembled with the memory of what she'd seen him do.

"Don't worry, darlin'," his mellow voice broke into her dark thoughts, in that quiet tone that was all for her, "it's not mine."

When their eyes met, she startled in surprise, her mouth forming a small O of amazement. She'd become so accustomed to feeling residues of his ferocious – and murderous – passion, she found it hard to believe when she witnessed the reflection in his eyes, an echo of the pain and misery she felt. Strangely, she found it reassuring. In a way, it made her feel better to know that there was more to him than the feral beast Stryker named him.

While a monster lived beneath the surface, there was also a man there too. His name was Logan, and he was as human as X was animal.

* * *

Xavier's mansion was only the well-groomed tip of a stunning iceberg. The bulk of the School was hidden below ground, sprawling out in a complex that sank deep into the earth and extended in all directions beneath the estate. It utilized technology as revolutionary as the design of the  _Blackbird._  The schematics of the power source alone made the physicists on Stryker's team sick with envy. They felt the uncharacteristic urge to abandon the mission to get their hands on this equipment. None were happy with the fact that their employer had other priorities.

A large chunk of space directly beneath the mansion had been gobbled up by what Magneto referred to as the Danger Room. This space was dedicated to the exploration into the practical dynamics and limitations of his students varied powers. Of equal significance, it was also where he trained his X-Men.

Technicians swarmed through the building the second the all clear signal was given, but found themselves frustrated by command protocols keyed to both retinal and voice prints they didn't have access to, and computer codes so deviously encrypted, they couldn't make sense of them.

Stryker didn't care. For him, all the technology in these rooms were of peripheral interest. Once their objectives had been achieved, they could deconstruct the school at their leisure.

In the company of an escort, he went down the main elevator to the uppermost level of the underground complex. Soldiers with digital cameras taped everything for download into the main database after they'd returned to headquarters – more grist for the analysts' mill. Chances were, they'd be living it up in hog heaven for years to come off the recordings alone.

As they passed through a locker room, Stryker paused to finger one of the uniforms. Yet another marvel of structural engineering. The material was light as a feather, and fit like a biker's speed suit, nearly a second skin. But, belying its light appearance, its resilience was extraordinary. The suits could protect the wearer from extremes of temperature and environment, snug in the winter, cool in the summer, dry in the middle of a downpour. And, most practical of all, at least in Stryker's opinion, it was better than Kevlar as body armor. Projections suggested the material could survive a point-blank round from a Barrett .50-caliber sniper gun, the most powerful rifle made and only one small step down from an actual cannon.

Lyman's sharp call drew him from his musings as the man ran to join him.

"Tunnels," he reported to Stryker as he stood to attention and gave the older man a salute. "That's how the mutants escaped. They're well shielded, even better than all this," he waved a hand, indicating the circular corridor around them. "From the way the targets kept popping off our scopes, it appears the walls are riddled with access points, the entire compound is shot through with tunnels. We utilized a sonic imager to find some of the entrances, but there were deadfalls inside, sealing the escape routes tight. From the way they booked it out of here, they had to have practiced escape and evasion maneuvers. The odds of catching them at exit points are slim at best."

"Prudent of them," Stryker said. "How many were we able to secure?"

"Eight, sir. What should we do with them?"

"Pack them up, we'll sort it out later."

While the two men spoke, they neared Stryker's ultimate destination, located at the end of the main hallway. A massive circular door, reminiscent of a bank vault, protected the chamber within against any form of hostile incursion. Stryker doubted even his access to advanced tools and technology would have been enough to breach the barrier.

However, none were needed. A single command spurred a pair of troopers into action. They set up the device they'd been carrying on a tripod in front of the formidable doorway. To the right side of the entrance was a scanning plate, in which a multifaceted blue crystal was embedded. They set up the lasing crosshairs dead center on the crystal, at the height of a tall man seated in a wheelchair.

The device was activated, and the laser refracted into a multitude of lesser beams that struck the crystal, replicating the retinal patter they'd recorded from Xavier's eye.

"Welcome, Professor," a gentle feminine voice murmured.

A dark smile lit Stryker's face as he strode along the platform to Xavier's console in the center of the great globe of a room. For now, the others held back, waiting for orders. To them, this chamber represented the great and rotten heart of their enemy, the place were Xavier honed and worked his incredible powers. From here, according to Magneto, he could reach out and connect with every mind on the planet. Stryker hoped the old man hadn't been exaggerating, because that was the key to his ultimate victory.

Reaching out, his hand hovered over the gleaming chrome helmet, but he couldn't bring himself to touch the artifact. It was Xavier's toy; let the mutant mental play with it. Stryker would was. "Take what you need, gentlemen," he ordered, goading the soldiers into the strange room.

* * *

Saturday night had come round at last, and Mitchell Laurio was where he could be found every Saturday night; the fourth stool from the end at the Dew Drop Inn. It wasn't the best bar around, but then again, he wasn't a picky man. There were TVs to spare, and if the cash was right, a man could entice one of the waitresses to join him in a booth and get a semiprivate show. Most night, the choice on the tube was sports or sex, but tonight the bartender switched the show over to some damned news station where two mooks blathered on about mutants, as if anyone in the world gave an actual fuck about their opinion.

Laurio hadn't realized he'd spoken his thoughts aloud, and wouldn't have cared if he did.

". . . the Mutant Registration Act provides a sense of security similar to Megan's Law." A middle aged guy whose title card identified him as Sebastian Shaw spouted. "A list of potentially dangerous mutants living in our communities."

The man to his left was half his age and nearly twice his size, and Laurio though he remembered him from college ball. One of those All-American asshats who passed on a pro contract to go to Stanford for a doctorate.

"Megan's Law is a database of known felons, Mr. Shaw," he responded heatedly, "not innocent people who haven't committed any crime and may not even be likely to. It's akin to registering every member of a religious or ethnic group in the nation, on the presumption that some of them may be terrorists."

"Some might not consider that such a bad idea."

" _Some_ , Sebastian," Lendell shot back, "Might consider America a better place than that."

"A damned mutant almost killed the President!"

"A  _person_ , who happened to be a mutant, made the attempt, yes. If he was a Lutheran, would you automatically condemn every Lutheran in the land?"

"If the knife said 'Lutheran Rights Now,' I'd damn sure consider it."

"What people often forget is that mutation is evolution in action. In a sense, we're all mutants. If not for past mutation, for past evolution, chances are we'd all be sitting in trees, picking bugs from one another's pelts."

"Goddamn it, Lou," Laurio barked, "turn that shit off. Bad enough I got the grandfather of all muties in my face all damned day without having this crap blaring at me while I try to enjoy an honest drink."

"I'm sorry," a feminine voice said behind him in a sultry tone that went down his spine like a shock, "it's my fault. I asked Lou to change the channel."

Half twisting on the stool, he found himself facing a woman who put the mutts who usually strutted around this place to shame. She wasn't a little twig girl, he had no taste for that bull shit. No, this one boasted a mouthwatering set of curves, a big rack, cute but, and a waste that made his hands itch to circle it. Her lips were painted liquid scarlet, sassy, with eyes so deeply shadowed that all he could see were glints reflecting the neon behind the bar, giving them a strange yellow cast. She was blond, and taller than he cared for, but he figured it was due to the stilt stilettos, and as she stalked closer, he had to admit he loved what the shoes did for her walk.

"You sound like a man with a lot on his mine," she paused, snatching a glance at his badge, "Mr. Laurio."

The way she purred his name sent an instant bolt of lust to his cock. He smelled scotch on her breath and noticed the half-full tumbler in her hand.

"I'm Grace," she said.

Laurio couldn't think of a thing to say. All he wanted to do was sit and stare. She let him. It was obvious she loved the attention.

"Want another beer, Mr. Laurio?" Without waiting for his reply, she smirked. "Of course you do."

"Mitch," he said. "My name's Mitch."

Another dazzling smile lit up her face as she shifted position beside him so that her skirt inched higher up her leg, flashing an enticing line of skin above the top of her stockings. He could fell the sweet press of her breast against his arm. She seemed to lose her balance a little, forcing him to catch her with his arm tight around her waist, and she giggled like it was the best joke she'd heard all night, and he laughed with her because this was the kind of moment he'd always dreamed of but never thought would happen.

Entranced by her beautiful form, he didn't see what her free hand did behind him as she gathered the beer mug close, and dropped a pair of white pills into the foam where they quickly dissolved.

It only took a couple more beers and the vaguest of suggestions to propel him off the stool towards the ladies' room. The room was a mirror image of the men's room, save the lack of urinals, and wasn't much cleaner. As they staggered over the threshold, Laurio tried to take a swallow of beer and steal a kiss at the same time only to fail at both. That broke them up again, and their laughter mingled together, echoing in the confines of the bathroom. He knew he was stinko, far more than a few beers usually got him, but he didn't care.

"I never hooked up with someone like you before," he confessed, like all those lucky bastards on TF.

"I know," she said. "Your lucky night."

One dainty hand rested on his chest for a second before giving a little push, dropping him onto the toilet seat.

"Kinda dirty, ain't it."

"That's the idea," she replied, leaning forward to tease him with a glimpse of her breasts before she squatted down in front of him. Her beautiful legs spread wide apart, but there were too many shadows, and his eyes couldn't focus enough to make the sight worthwhile. Then, as she unbuckled his belt, he gave up trying to steal a peak. Tonight was getting better and better.

"Velcro," Grace hummed as she opened his pants. "Kinky."

"Bottoms up," he toasted her, raising his beer high.

"I certainly hope so."

A final mysterious smile graced her lips while the last of his beer cascaded out of the mug, spilling over the bottom half of his face and chest. His mouth hung open, but he made no attempt to swallow. He was beyond such things. As his head fell back against the tile behind him, his pupils dilated to their limits, and his nerveless arms dropped. The mug slipped from his limp grip to shatter on the floor.

Grace pressed her fingers to his throat, satisfying herself it was firm and regular before using the tips of her fingers to close his mouth and stop the first ragged snore. All of the drunken sloppiness fell from her as she snapped the lock shut on the door behind her. Reaching down, she grabbed Laurio around the waist and flipped the big man over so that his head dangled behind the bowl and his rump stuck up into the air like a perverse offering.

She slipped open her purse and removed a large syringe, and tapped the barrel with a lacquered forefinger to clear any air bubbles. It wouldn't do to give the slug an embolism before he could make it to work in the morning. Steeling herself, she jerked down his boxers and sank the needle home in his amble buttocks. As she did so, the skin of her hand darkened to the same indigo shade as her nail polish. The transformation snaked up her arm, across her body, which became longer and leaner, much less the kind of blowsy Beubens woman that Mitchell Laurio dreamed of in favor of someone much stronger and more sleekly muscular. The blond gave way to dark autumnal russet shot through with midnight. Mystique bared startlingly white teeth before patting Laurio where she'd injected him.

"Bottoms up, darling." And then she was gone.

* * *

"The men are nearly finished, sir," Lyman reported after meeting up with his superior en route from the landing pad.

Stryker gave a nod of approval. "We're ahead of schedule," he observed. "Strip down at source, transport, and reconstruction. I am impressed, Mr. Lyman. The crews are to be commended."

"You trained them well, sir. They're following your lead." Stryker gave a nod of agreement. Things were going better than he'd imagined. It was a good omen of things to come.

"How does it look?" he asked.

"Flawless."

They passed a reception cubicle where one of the soldiers tended to the optic based mutant they'd captured with Xavier, strapping a metal band over the unconscious mutant's eyes.

"Good," Stryker replied, both to the report and what he witnessed in the cubicle. "Now time for the main event."

* * *

At first, he wasn't sure he was awake. It felt like every cell in his brain was giving its own personal opinion, loudly, on the situation they found themselves in. Worse, there wasn't a single thought strand anywhere near him.

Xavier was alone in his mind, adding to the unreality of his waking. He fought down panic at finding himself trapped within his own skull. Without the constant mutter of life all around him, he felt hollow and alone. It was like being an astronaut, who through accident got cast out into the yawning maw of space, drifting alone in the darkness. Crying out mentally didn't even produce a faint echo. Xavier could only know the world from a single perspective, his own, and it was unbearable.

Trying to move his arm, he found himself bound to his chair. Duct tape glittered around his wrists, locking them to the hand rests, and for a second he wondered if Pietro was playing a trick, though he knew that wasn't the case. It was the same vain hope that a woman locked in a room feels when she tries the door, knowing it to be locked but hoping maybe it will open if she jiggles the handle just right.

There was a dull pressure around his head, and thoughts of the torture instruments of the Inquisition flashed unhelpfully through his mind. One such devise would be strapped around the victim's skull and gradually tightened until the bone shattered. From how he felt, Xavier assumed that had long sense happened. If his head lulled forward, his brain might flop out onto his lap. Final oblivion would be better – anything would be better – than the gaping emptiness drowning him.

Forcing himself to be proactive, he took inventory of the physical world around him. He wasn't in Mount Haven that was for certain. It was dark in the room, but the walls were pockmarked with age, whereas the prison had been strictly maintained. The air was cold enough to make him shiver; a damp cold that ate into his bones relentlessly. This was a place long abandoned, and though he could hear the distant sound of activity, it was clear they weren't planning on making this a permanent base of operation.

On reflex, he tried to reach out with his thoughts towards the sounds outside. Suddenly the Inquisitor analogy took on new life. It felt like barbed spikes were driven into his skull. The instant agony doubled him over, pulling a weak moan from the pit of his gut. Worse, he could smell the unpleasant consequences as his body lost all control. Tears stung his eyes at the loss of his dignity.

"I had to see that work for myself," a pleased voice announced Stryker's presence as he entered the room.

Xavier didn't respond at first. Better to take the time to recover and gather his few remaining resources before facing his enemy. His tongue swiped along the inside of his dry mouth, tasting the familiar gunmetal flavor of adrenaline, remembering another time and place when his telepathy had been of no use to him. A wayward step on a jungle trail, and the shock of a landmine that, fortunately, was on the other side of a tree. That encounter won him a Purple Heart, but it also taught him a valuable lesson: Just because it doesn't have a brain, doesn't mean it won't kill you.

Stryker was a man of patience, especially when he was winning. He waited until Xavier was ready to continue.

He wasn't alone. In the doorway, standing at attention, was a bodyguard. Her Asian features were as lovely as they were blank. The eyes caught Xavier's attention, similar to Zen, yet entirely different. While there was animation in her gaze, there was no sense of life. It was like she was both awake, yet entirely asleep.

"I call it the neural inhibitor," Stryker boasted. "The more you think, the more you hurt. And—" he tapped his own forehead—"it keeps you out of here."

"William," Xavier replied, unsurprised by how difficult it was to speak even that one word. It wasn't just his psychic abilities crippled by the inhibiter, but to a degree his basic cognitive ability as well.

"I'm sorry we couldn't fine more . . . comfortable quarters," Stryker said. "We're undergoing some major renovations, much like your delightful mansion."

Xavier felt stupid, which in turn sparked his anger. Even though he heard the man, he couldn't make the connection, couldn't see the implications of what Stryker said, even though he acted like it was blindingly obvious. Instead, he focused on the one thing his inhibited mind could latch onto.

"What have you done with Scott?"

"Don't worry, you'll be seeing him soon. I'm giving the boy a little reeducation," he paused. "But you know all about that, don't you? Altering thoughts and perceptions must be as easy for you as rewriting codes of software."

"There's no need to involve anyone else!" Xavier protested with more vehemence that Stryker expected.

"No need to involve anyone else?" Stryker was genuinely incredulous. "You run a school for mutants, Professor. What on Earth do you teach those foul creatures?"

That was a question requiring a conceptual answer, which took more effort than was pretty and brought another wave of pain. But Xavier persevered nonetheless, calling on the same focus and discipline that enabled him, self-taught, to master his burgeoning telepathy.

"To survive," he hissed through gritted teeth. "To coexist peacefully in a world that lives in fear of them."

Stryker snorted. "I've seen what's buried under your house, Xavier. It didn't look the least bit peaceful to me. I also know – firsthand – the kind of monsters you've gathered to live there. Some species can never coexist. I learned that lesson from you," he finished offhandedly before turning away.

"You wanted me to cure your son. But, William, mutation is not a disease."

"Liar," he snapped. When Stryker looked back, his mask of pleasantness was gone. The pain living in his soul was there on his face, the grief, the rage, and he turned his words into a lash to flay his prisoner with.

"You're lying, Xavier," Stryker repeated, more forcefully. "You were more afraid of him than I was! He was too powerful, and unlike your other puppets, you couldn't control him."

Behind him, the Asian woman laced her fingers together, cracking her knuckles. Stryker noticed the action more than Xavier did. The gesture amused him, but only for a fleeting moment, the feeling quickly vanished under his relentless fury.

"You know, just a year after Jason returned from your school, my wife . . ." Stryker's voice trailed off, and he stood up. His right hand was clenched so tightly the knuckles were white, and Xavier guessed he wanted to use that fist on Xavier himself. "You see, he resented us for his . . . condition. He was my son. I loved him more than my own life, we both did. How could he feel such things about us? How could he . . .  _do_  . . . such things?"

"He would . . . play with our minds, you see. Project images and scenarios into our brains."

As he spoke, the woman's breathing became erratic. A faint trembling began in her hands, catching Xavier's eye. There was a growing look of confusion on her face, a distinct change to the quality of animation he'd seen in her gaze. She was no longer placid; she was waking.

Stryker paid the woman no mind, all his focus remained locked on Xavier.

"Unfortunately," he said, straining to force the emotion down which only revealed the terrible, haunting depth of those feelings. "I had my work. I was overseas, serving my country." The subtext was plain. He hadn't been there to share or alleviate his wife's ordeal; he couldn't do for he what he felt his job required him to do for the nation—save the day. He'd survived and was both glad and guilty over the fact.

"My wife couldn't get away. She was trapped with him all the time. We had to keep him home, you see. After you sent him away, we dared not risk sending him to attend a school. Can you imagine what he would have done to all those impressionable young minds?"

"I . . . didn't know."

"How convenient for you. My wife, over time, she became easily influenced . . . unable to tell the difference between reality and his warped imaginings. In the end . . ." he paused, facing down the memory like a warrior facing down an army. "She took a power drill to her left temple, in an attempt to bore the images out of her mind."

Next to him, the woman swayed, shaking her head to clear it as she reached out to steady herself. With practiced ease, Stryker stopped the gesture and pushed the arm back to her side. He was aware of her condition and it didn't appear to bother him in the slightest. Everything was under control.

"My . . . boy," and that single world held a world of heartache, loss, and the shattered dreams of a father. "The great illusionist."

"For someone who hates mutants, you keep strange company."

"It has its uses," Stryker responded. "It serves a purpose. As do you."

With the controlled grip of a trainer guiding a horse, he bent the woman forward from the waist until her head was on the same level as Xavier's. Sweeping her long hair aside, he bared the back of her neck to reveal a scar that was twin to the one Xavier saw on Magneto.

Eyes locking with Xavier, Stryker applied two studied drops. The effects were instantaneous. Her shallow breaths returned to a normal pace, she stopped trembling, and when she strengthened to her full height, Xavier saw the stirring personality was again absent from her eyes.

Stryker whispered into her ear. She nodded and left the room.

"It was you." Xavier gasped, the pieces snapping together so harshly in his mind they seemed to echo inside his skull. "You arranged the attack on the President!"

A surprised laugh escaped the big man. "And you didn't even have to read my mind."

"You know," he continued, "I believe I've been working with mutants almost as long as you have, but the final solution to the problem continued to elude me. I suppose I'm in your debt. I have to thank you, Xavier, because you gave me Magneto, and Magneto gave me the answer."

"You can't eradicate us, William. New mutants are born every day."

"And once I'm through, they'll be born into a different world. What are you thinking, that I'll end up like Ramses or Herod or poor old Heydrich? Nice try at genocide, but no cigar?"

"Guess again. You see, in all my years of . . . research, the most frustrating thing I've learned is that no one knows how many mutants exist, or how to locate them"

Now he leaned a little closer, putting his face on the same level as Xavier's. "Except you." He held the small vial up to the light. "Sadly, this little brew won't work on a telepath of your caliber, will it?"

Standing, he slid the bottle away. "No, you're far too powerful for that. Instead, we'll need to go right to the source."

With crisp, military movements that were a flourish in themselves, Stryker opened the door.

"Allow me to introduce Mutant 143."


	33. Confessions

"If you want to tell people the truth, make them laugh, otherwise they'll kill you."

\- Oscar Wilde

 

* * *

 

"Allow me to introduce Mutant 143."

Xavier forced his eyes to focus on the pitiful creature as it was pushed into the room. The body in the wheelchair was so emaciated, he first assumed the individual was old, with limbs arraigned so neatly he knew they couldn't move of their own volition; the way the head lolled to the side illustrated the lack of effective musculature. Near his mouth dangled a water tube, which he constantly licked to keep his tongue and lips moist. Nutrients and fluids dripped into him intravenously through permanent junctions in the major blood vessels of the leg up close to his groin. Thankfully, the sight was hidden beneath a blanket, but Xavier assumed permanent catheters were employed to dispose of his waste.

The stranger's head was macrocephalic, swollen to abnormal dimensions and marred by a scar across the temple as if the skull had cracked under the pressure of the growing mass within. Tubes sprouted like tentacles from implants imbedded in the back of the man's skull, draining an endless volume of what had to be cerebrospinal fluid into clear containers mounted on the back of the chair. Xavier recognized the alien yellow liquid as the substance Stryker used to control the mutant woman, and Magneto, and Lord knows who else.

The man in the chair had duel colored eyes, one an electric blue, while the other mimicked the emerald green of spring grass. Looking into those haunting eyes, Xavier was struck by the cruel cunning that lurked in them. He recognized the vicious intelligence as a force to be wary of. The man knew exactly who he was, and he hated it beyond all levels of sane imagining.

Even with all the horrific changes, Xavier recognized him, could almost see the boy he'd once been like a ghost in the shape of the jaw and echoed in those unique eyes.

"Jason . . . " he whispered. And then, in the same horror laden tone, he turned to Stryker. "My God, William – what have you done to him? He's your son!"

"No, Charles. My son died long ago."

The icy look in Stryker's eyes was a perfect match to his mutilated son.

"Just like the rest of you."

* * *

 

They rolled into Quincy as the sun reached its peak in the sky, shining down on a street filled with neatly trimmed, respectable houses. Large oaks shaded the road, and had done so since before the Revolution. Logan followed Bobby's muttered directions, pulling into the driveway of a prim two-story home. The garage was locked, so they were forced to leave the car exposed in the driveway.

The same went for the house itself, but they were only on the porch a second while Bobby fished a key out of a daisy pot. Flashing a nervous smile, he let them in.

"Mom?" Bobby's voice called into the stillness. "Dad? Ronny? Anyone home?"

Logan knew the house was empty, his senses informed him of the fact while they were still outside, but he didn't bother letting the kid know. Better for him to establish it for himself. He was itching to move on, instinct whispered that staying put for too long was inviting more trouble, but he forced the feeling down. By nature, he was a loner, but he also understood the concept of responsibility and obligation. Zen would skin him alive and keep his flesh from healing if he let anything happen to the kids, so abandoning them was not an option.

"Looks like we have the place to ourselves," Bobby said. Hesitating, he reached out to snag the phone. "Maybe I should call—"

Logan's hand settled on the phone, he shook his head. "Leave it. You never know who might be listening."

Conflicting emotions flashed across Bobby's face, incredulity warred with paranoid suspicion. "You really think they tapped my parents' phones?"

"All I'm saying is we need to be careful. This isn't a game, kid." Logan swung his head around to allow his gaze to encompass all of them. "Those troops were serious, and they were good. If we want to have a chance of coming out of this clean, we have to deal with them on their own level, clear?"

Bobby bit his lower lip, indecision flashing in his blue eyes before he gave a sharp nod of agreement. Turning his attention to Rogue he said, "I'll see if I can find you some clothes," then to John, "don't burn anything."

Being young males, they traded gestures – a finger from John, and a smirking reply from Bobby.

Leading Rogue upstairs, Bobby took her to his room and gave her first dibs on the shower. She turned the water on, twisting the dial almost all the way over to H. The hot liquid cascaded over her trembling skin like a boiling monsoon. She closed her eyes, letting the hot water wash away the stench of fear. Forlorn hope filled her, perhaps when she opened her eyes, this would all turn out to be a morbid dream or a bogus training scenario sprung on them.

Once her skin felt scrubbed raw, she wrapped herself in a towel, swept her hair back from her face and tied it in a loose tail.

Some of the numbness faded under the pounding of the shower, and Rogue felt curiosity flare as she looked around Bobby's room. It was similar to his dorm room at school – emphasis on snowboarding posters and the mandatory Red Sox pennant. Her eyes were drawn to an autographed football from the 2001 Super Bowl that the New England Patriots won.

She flipped through his CDs, unimpressed with his choice of music – was she the only person in school with any taste? – when he returned with clothing draped over one arm. He must've thought she was still in the shower, because he paled almost whiter than the blouse in his arms when he saw her. Suddenly the towel felt as small as a postage stamp, and she thought of how much skin was exposed to his startled gaze.

Then a new thought slipped eel-like through her mind. Did he like her legs? While her figure wasn't much compared to some of the other girls, especially Siryn, his eyes kept returning to her, so there had to be something he liked.

Was his mouth as parchment dry as hers? Did his heart pound frantically in his chest? Usually she could read his every expression, but now he looked as frozen as the ice he created.

"Hey," he said in greeting.

"Hey," she replied in kind.

"I hope these'll work."

"Thanks."

"They're my mom's. From before I was born I think, but they should fit."

"Groovy," she teased.

Stepping closer, he handed her the clothes but made no other move until she motioned for him to make a U-turn and scoot. With that, his false composure melted, so much so he collided with the door twice while trying to make an exit. Closing the door, he stood in the hall waiting for her to finish.

When the door opened behind him, he turned giving her a brilliant smile. She tugged at one of the short sleeves, uncomfortable with the amount of skin showing. If possible, his smile grew another thousand watts. He had a solution.

Bobby held out a pair of full length opera gloves. The soft material would shield her arms almost up to the sleeves. Not a perfect solution, but still one that touched her.

As Rogue reached for the gloves, Bobby's hand darted out, attempting to capture hers before she snatched it back as though she'd almost stuck it into a pot of boiling water. She stepped back, a gasp on her lips as her other hand lifted palm up defensively toward him.

"You know I would never hurt you," he said, shifting closer.

"I know," her voice was so weak that she mouthed the words instead of speaking them out loud. Every fiber of her being ached to reach out, to bridge the gap and make contact. Her skin throbbed in desperate hunger for his touch, for the soft stroke of skin against skin, another human's touch. Rouge had told him about her power from the start – everyone in the Institute knew the prohibition about touching her, one that came from Xavier himself – but she suspected no one believed it.

Right now, she didn't want to believe either.

He moved closer still, his face closing the distance between them, and tears filled her eyes as static electricity made the small hairs of her cheek rise. Her fists clenched, and she felt her body tighten from head to toe as if she were being stretched on a medieval rack.

Bobby's breath caressed her lips first – warm and tempting, then chill enough for her own breath to form a soft cloud between them, and then warm again. So inviting she couldn't hold back a second longer.

Her lips slid against his, arms circling his neck as his curled around her body. Sweet contact as their tongues touched, and she giggled as a burst of frost tickled across her skin.

For a moment, it was pure bliss.

Then she imprinted.

The sweet warmth between them morphed into a torrent of blazing lava, ripping across her nervous system, agony for him, ecstasy for her. The shock of contact made the veins bulge and pulse on his forehead and across his chest. His beautiful eyes went cloudy and rolled around the sockets like the eyes of a spooked horse. A jerky spasm twisted through him, once, twice, hovering on the verge of a grand mal seizure.

Rogue fought to release him. The initial stage of imprinting was all physical, like giving a car a jumpstart. It sent burning jolt of energy to her system that could keep her at peak condition for days. If she broke the contact then, it was over.

But, if she held longer, the second stage engaged, where she absorbed the parahuman abilities of the person she was touching. On Liberty Island, Magneto used her as a living power source for his wicked machine, even though he'd known it would kill her in the end. He'd deemed her life a noble sacrifice. X destroyed the machine and accidentally initiated contact with her. Even though she'd been unconscious at the time, her power was not. It kicked in automatically and brought her back from the brink of death. That's where she'd gotten the skunk-stripe forelock in her hair. It was also why she never attempted to hide it. That stripe was a personal badge of honor – an acknowledgment of what he'd done for her, and what she'd done to him.

There was a third aspect of her power, one that wasn't temporary. The energy boost faded with time, as did the powers, but if contact lasted long enough, she took into herself the mind and memories of her victim. Forever after, she held a residue of the other's personality, and she thought, feared, she gave a portion of herself over to them as well.

During her healing, she'd taken on some of the sharper aspects of X's nature. In the first few days, it was almost impossible to form words and not grunt or growl at people. In time, she got a handle on the new part of herself, it appeared to vanish. Only she knew the truth, that X would always be a part of her.

If she held on to Bobby, he would become a part of her too. A sharp cry escaped her as she shoved him away, collapsing on the bed while he reeled back into the shelter of the corner formed by the open door and wall. Rogue clenched her eyes shut, but it didn't matter. The look of pain and terror on his face seared itself across her heart.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed. A different kind of ache filled her at the inadequate words. What do you say to someone you loved after stealing some of their life force? It was hardly the sort of thing covered in Miss Manners.

Bobby licked his dry lips. "It's—okay." She could hear him shuffling around the door like a zombie, and felt hate well up inside her. Not for him, but for her own power. She hated how amazing it felt to drain someone, and most of all how impossible it was to control and the bitter fact that she could never give back what she'd stolen. It was a one way street. She sat with the gloves across her lap, smoothing the delicate fabric over and over again as if she were ironing them, desperate to find something she could put to rights.

John heard Bobby totter down the stairs, but didn't bother to see if the other teen needed help. He stood in the family room, lighter flicking open and shut unnoticed in one hand. Pictures lined the walls, perched on shelves, and rested on top of the massive TV. Every photograph showed the same thing: a happy family, just what you'd expect to find in any corner of America.

He hated it.

The lighter vanished into his front pocket, and – against his will – the fingers of his left hand went to his right wrist, tracing the long scar there. Not one of those pussy slashes across the wrist, a whine for attention, but a proper line paralleling the veins.

It hadn't been life on the streets that drove him to it, or the nightmares he'd experienced during those terrible years. Instead, it had been the utter inability to cope with being safe. After Xavier took him in, he'd fallen apart, but skills mastered on the streets kept it all behind a neat façade of indifference. Under the mask, his world cracked under the strain of simple human kindness.

Years of dealing with the dredges made it almost impossible for him to accept that there were decent people in the world.

John still remembered that night. He hadn't been contemplating suicide, not in the front of his mind. In truth, it had been a moment of utter spontaneousness when the pressure overwhelmed him, swept away all his hard earned survival skills. Blood poured from the wound like a crimson waterfall, so hot it startled him. He hadn't expected the heat of it, and all he could do was stare dumbly at the life gushing out of him.

Of course, killing one's self in a school like Xavier's was a near impossibility, and the teachers broke down the door before he passed out from blood loss.

In the months that followed, he deemed the room they kept him in The King of Heart's suit, and how he hated that room. It wasn't like he was insane, he didn't need bouncy walls or all that bullshit. He just . . . his fingernail dug lightly into the scar. He slipped, that was all. Emotions got the better of him, and he'd given in to the impulse. Closing his eyes against all those smiling happy faces, he let his hands drop.

In the kitchen, Logan silently berated himself. He knew what transpired upstairs, but realized what was happening too late to put a stop to it. When he sensed what was going on, he'd headed for the stairs before hearing Rogue's faint cry and the soft thump of Bobby hitting the wall. He'd held his place on the stairs long enough to ensure the pair hadn't done each other lasting damage, then turned away. Logan didn't know how to help them, and the only advice his instincts and experience could offer was to give them space. Allow them to lick their wounds in privet and regain their equilibrium, the way he'd want to, if the situation was reversed.

Returning to the kitchen, he slid open the communicator he'd taken from John in the car.

"Hello," he spoke into the tiny grille, feeling like an utter fool. "Hello? C'mon, Jean, pick up the damn phone! Where the hell are you, woman? You're supposed to be a bloody telepath – if you can't hear my call, what about my thoughts? Where are you?"

The radio spit static in response, white noise in the confines of his skull. Snapping the communicator shut again, he stuffed it into his hip pocket. He opened the fridge and snagged one of the beers. Miller Genuine Draft, not the best, but acceptable. Half the bottle was drained in a long swig ending in a rumbling belch.

He crossed to the sink, turning the water on hot and hard to blast the blood away. Liberal use of the Dial dish soap cleaned away the residual stains. When he was finished, a sound behind him caused him to turn, claws extended. A fat marmalade tabby stared at him with the disconcerting stare of a feline. Then her liquid grey eyes blinked once, and she approached, tail up to give his outstretched claws a dainty sniff. She must've liked what she smelled because she gave one gleaming edge a lick.

A half smile curved his lips. This was why he preferred the wild to civilization. Life was less complicated; an animal trusted you, or it didn't. If they didn't, they attacked or ran. People could come at you any which way, whenever they pleased, for whatever reason or no reason at all. They excelled at entangling their lives, wrapping you so tightly you couldn't thing straight or found yourself being led the wrong direction.

Case in point, he heard the sound of a car shutting off in the drive way. Base scent similar to Bobby Drake's informed him that he was about to meet the kid's family. Perfect.

His claws vanished back into their flesh housing, making the cat hiss in surprise as she sprang away from him. A second later, William Drake stormed over the threshold, followed by his wife, Madeline, and Bobby's kid brother, Ronny.

"Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my house?" Drake demanded.

Logan couldn't come up with an answer that would improve the situation, so he bought himself a few moments more by finishing off the beer. The light thumps of feet on the stairs signaled the arrival of the cavalry as Bobby led the other students into the kitchen.

"Dad!" he said, a bright if slightly ridged smile tightened his lips. "Mom! You're home."

"Honey," Madeline said, "shouldn't you be at school?"

"Bobby, who is this guy?" Drake demanded, pointing a jerky finger at Logan.

"Professor Logan." A look showed his dad wasn't buying it.

Madeline didn't spare Logan more than a glance. All her focus narrowed down on Rogue, locking in on the white opera gloves covering the girl's arms.

"What is this girl doing wearing my clothes?" she asked. "Are those Nana's gloves?"

"Mom, uh, guys, can I talk to you about something?" Bobby stammered.

* * *

 

Mitchell Laurio's steps were accompanied by a cheery whistle as he came on shift. While he couldn't recall much of what happened in the ladies' can, he never felt better in his life after it was over. The memory of Grace's farewell kisses were enough to heat his blood and added an extra spring to his step. She'd left with a whispered promise to meet him again tonight, making him long for time to fly.

The guard at the last checkpoint was the latest officer to comment: "Mitchell Laurio, what is that on your face, man?"

"Sa-tis-f _ac-_ tion!"

He told the story again, and like all the others, the man didn't believe a word of it. Lard-ass Laurio actually scoring on some dame with a pulse? It was unimaginable. His trysts were almost nonexistent—the man was such a slob the pros charged double for a quickie. If he wanted more, they developed a headache. By all accounts, the bimbo didn't look half bad, which made the whole thing even more incredible. Drugs, it was the only logical conclusion. That or someone with a major twist to her psyche.

The one thing that couldn't be denied was that it happened. The bartender was his witness, his oath to God.

Of course, Laurio had to embellish the evening. All in all, it wasn't a bad story, even the way he told it, which was why neither man noticed the small blip on the scanner indicating the presence of metal. It wasn't a significant glitch; it didn't last more than a fraction of a second before the system returned a message of all clear. Even if the guard was paying attention, he might not have noticed. But he wasn't, and the inattention sealed Mitchell Laurio's fate.

"You're clear," the guard said, cycling the umbilical out to the cell in the center of the room.

Erik Lehnsherr was asleep when Laurio stomped over the threshold. Then, like a cat scenting a plump mouse, he came completely awake with a rush he hadn't experienced since his capture.

"Sweet dreams, Lehnsherr?" Laurio taunted. Even the best night of his life didn't mean he'd pass up the morning beating. After all, one was just as much a pleasure to him as the other.

Setting the tray on the table, Laurio gave Lehnsherr a nasty grin. The smirk wilted a little when the old man sat there staring at him. Something in his expression was off, as if there was a joke being played that only he was privy too. At the same time, his eyes lit with a predatory cast, making Laurio regret the fact that the internal monitors were off.

As was common of the guard, when he felt threatened, he got aggressive. This time, he wouldn't stop until the old bastard begged.

"There's something different about you, Mr. Laurio," Lehnsherr said in a softly questioning tone, as if he couldn't quite credit what he saw.

There was something different about the mutant, too. They'd often done variations of this dance. Lehnsherr knew what was coming. Before today, he'd always faced the inevitable with stoic resignation. But today, he was alert, watchful – almost amused. In the past, his strength was a passive thing as he endured each beating and refused to cry out. Now it had changed to an active force, like a coiled snake ready to lash out at the slightest provocation. It occurred to Laurio briefly that this time the old man intended to fight back.

Again the grin flared. Good, that would give Laurio sanction to do anything he wished in retaliation, which would be the perfect start to his morning.

"Yeah, I think I'm having a pretty damned good day."

Lehnsherr stood with eerie grace, belying the age marking his features.

"No," he said, "no, it's not that."

"Sit down," Laurio commanded. Instinct, akin to a junk yard dog, clawed at his mind. This wasn't going the way it should. He and his prisoner seemed to be reading from two different scripts. Locking eyes with the mutant, he made a show of putting one hand on his billy club. Lehnsherr had learned the hard lesson on how fast he was, how formidable. One quick snap of the wrist would send the club into the bastard's gut, forcing him to kneel, gasping for breath. Then, it would be Laurio's decision, his pleasure, where to apply his follow-up strikes for maximum impact. Every act of defiance on Lehnsherr's part would simply add to the punishment, yet the old man didn't care.

He wasn't afraid of Laurio, had never been afraid of him. While they might have put the tiger in a cage, they'd failed to break him to their will. They hadn't even come close.

"No," Lehnsherr said.

Laurio's strike halted mid-motion.

"Well, well, well," Lehnsherr said with detached bemusement, an aged professor contemplating a difficult student.

With a flick of his fingers, the billy club dropped from Laurio's numb hand. He was desperate to call for help, but his jaw was locked around the cry. Every muscle in his body had seized up, and with the monitors off, no one outside knew what was happening in the cell. The guard in the monitor room at the opposite end of the umbilical cord wouldn't have a clue; from his position, he'd just see the two of them standing across from each other, and he'd be looking at Laurio's back.

He wanted to beg for mercy, Lehnsherr could see it in his frantic eyes.

Instead of giving the worm a chance to writhe, he made another slight motion with his fingertips, and the frozen guard rose six inches of the floor.

"Ah." Lehnsherr side, satisfaction coloring the single syllable. He'd found what he was seeking. "There it is."

Like a conductor, Lehnsherr made a sharp, slashing gesture at Laurio's helpless form. He arched as much as his invisible bonds would permit as a fine scarlet mist ripped violently from every pore of his body.

"Too much iron in your blood."

For Mitchell Laurio, it felt like hot needles were being drawn out of his flesh, flaying skin from muscle before being liberally doused in salt. He wished for death, anything to stop the pain, but Lehnsherr wasn't in a forgiving frame of mind.

The strange mist drifted to the floor, settling in tiny red specs. A cloud of metallic silver hung in the air, suspended by the mutant's power.

Lehnsherr's hand snapped shut, forming a fist. The iron particles merged into three perfect spheres, each the size of a marble. When he was young, the Nazis taught him to make ball bearings; it was fitting he adopt them as a talisman for his power.

Their size shrank as the last drops of Laurio's blood squeezed out due to the pressure. He used his power to bond the atoms together more tightly than nature would have, so they massed as much as depleted uranium. Unaided, he doubted a champion weight lifter could have picked one of the tiny spheres up.

Slowly, the balls began to move, forming delicate orbits over his upheld palm.

"A word to the wise, Mr. Laurio," Lehnsherr said with a smile, as if their relationship had been a genuine pleasure, "a little something . . . else to remember me by. Never trust a beautiful woman. Especially one who's interested in you."

Cutting ties to the power holding the big man aloft, Laurio hit the ground with a dull thump.

Lehnsherr closed his eyes, and his will directed the balls, flinging them at the walls of his cell. Satisfaction curled in his chest like a content cat as he watched the walls of his prison shatter.

Alarms began blaring, and he knew they'd use the remote-controlled miniguns mounted in the cavern walls, and that the vast cavern would soon be flooded with nerve gas. But the space was huge, and the guards had grown lax over time. They assumed he was safe, a lion who's fangs and claws were pulled. That gave him more than enough time.

With a low mechanical whine, the umbilical began to retract. Lehnsherr focused on one of the spheres, and it obediently flattened into a wafer thin disk easily wide enough to stand on. Stepping onto the makeshift transport, he directed it across the chasm to the main exit. A glance to the side showed the guard in the monitor room calling for help. One sphere silenced him while the second attacked the door.

They struck with the brute force of armor-piercing cannon shells. Stepping over the pulped flesh of the guard, he found a hardwire link that led from his computer into the prison's central network. He bared the cable and set his spheres rotating until an electric field worthy of a mainline generator was created. Then, backing it with all the furious passion, hate, and disgust he'd kept in check all these wretched months, he shoved the power into the cable. Sparks erupted all around him. The monitor screens flared with static before going dark. The darkness was a contagion, taking out the lights, which were replaced instantly with emergency spot lamps.

The facility was controlled by computers, and the surge of power killed the lot. Electric doors wouldn't work, nor electric sensors, or defenses. They wouldn't be able to track or find him unless he chose to reveal himself, and they had few resources to stop him. Fewer still were plastic once he got out of the no metal zones.

During his incarceration, they'd mocked him for the name he'd chosen for himself. Now he would refresh their memories; remind them again why Magneto was a worthy adversary. One deserving of both respect, and above all, fear.

* * *

 

Worry fought with irritation in Jean's gut.

"Professor Xavier, come in, please?" she said, repeating the call louder in her mind. "Scott, are you there, are you receiving, over?"

Static was the only reply.

Tapping another number, she switched the headset from radio to cell phone, and tried her luck at the mansion.

Static.

Next she attempted Scott's cell, followed by the Carphone in Xavier's Rolls-Royce.

Static.

With no better idea in mind, she ran a full-spectrum diagnostic on the  _Blackbird's_ communications array. Perhaps the water submersion damaged the antennae. A few minutes later, the computer reported all systems green, just as they'd been the last two times she'd tested them.

Changing channels, she listened to WBUR for a second before flipping to local and federal law enforcement frequencies.

To her dismay, the system was sending and receiving perfectly. A chill rose goosebumps on her arms as she acknowledged the truth. The problem was on the other end. It wasn't that the lines weren't connecting, no one on the other end was picking up, not even voice mail.

Jean rubbed her face with her free hand, then swept it over her head to smooth her long, unruly hair into momentary submission before letting it drop again. Closing her eyes, she let flexed her shoulders in a vain attempt to ease the growing tension.

A wisp of thought feathered across her mind, warning her that Storm had stepped up to the flight deck. Then her friend's hand fell gently onto her shoulders, kneading the tight muscles. Jean couldn't keep the smile from her lips when she felt a cool breeze tickle down the back of her uniform before washing over her skin.

"Mmmm," she moaned in delight. "If only you could bottle that and sell it. We'd be millionaires."

"Perhaps, but it wouldn't be as much fun."

In spite of their light teasing, Jean knew Storm was just as concerned.

"How long has it been?"

"Too long. Landlines, cell, radio are all down. There's been nothing on the news of a disaster in the area."

"Send an e-mail?"

"No, that would be too risky. Anyone capable of knocking the mansion off the grid would be able to back-track a computer link. I'm pushing things with the com devises."

"No telepathy, either? From the professor?"

"No," Jean bit her bottom lip.

"So?"

"I wanted to wait until dark before heading home, but I'm starting to reconsider."

"This may be the ultimate in stealth aircraft, Jean, but we can still be seen."

"That's where you come in, dear Ororo."

The weather witch snorted. "I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks, whatever you come up with, make it quick. Kay?"

"I'll see what I can do," she repeated.

"By the way, how's our passenger?"

Nightcrawler was praying.

He'd folded himself into one of the sleek leather chairs in the passenger compartment, his legs in the lotus position, hands clasped in his lap, and eyes closed. Storm expected to find him hanging from the ceiling. Though he stood six feet tall, you'd never guess it by looking at him because he spent so much of his time in a crouch. He seemed as comfortable upside down as not, using his big toes or tail to anchor himself in place.

For all his differences, he had a good strong face. Now that Storm could see him relaxed, it looked younger than she'd expected. Looking closer, she noticed his deep indigo skin was covered in tattoos.

"It's an angelic alphabet," he informed her. She raised her blue gaze to meet his yellow, "passed on to mankind by the Archangel Gabriel."

"They're beautiful," she said, even though the black etchings on his nearly black skin were almost invisible, like the man himself when he allowed the shadows to embrace him.

"How many are there?"

"One for every sin. So" – a quick flash of brilliant white teeth in what might have been a smile—"quite a few."

"That, I don't believe."

He looked at her with a disconcertingly level gaze. "You know, outside the circus, most people are afraid of me."

"I'm not."

He swallowed, looking away. She could tell from the slight shift in the heat gradient of his cheeks that he was blushing. Instead of acknowledging his embarrassment, his eyes tracked around the cabin, taking in the sleek configuration of the interior hall, while his hand ran over the material of the chair.

"You and Miss Grey –  _Doktor_  Grey – you're both . . . school teachers?"

"Is that so hard to believe?"

He gave a low laugh.

"Yes," she told him, "we are. At a school for people . . . like us. Where we can be safe."

"Safe from what?"

"Everyone else."

His tail twitched like a cat's. "You know, outside the circus, most people I met were afraid of me. But I never hated them. I felt sorry for them, do you know why?"

Strom shook her head.

"Because most people never know anything beyond what they can see with their own two eyes."

She snorted, shaking her head. "I gave up on pity long ago."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

Reaching out, he stroked a finger along her smooth cheek. The gentle touch sent a surprising burst of heat rippling beneath her skin.  _He's_ flirting  _with me_ , she thought but didn't move away because along with the realizing came the knowledge that she enjoyed it. She liked him. Unlike most of the men she'd dealt with in her life, he had a serenity to his soul that was totally at odds with his external appearance. It was like he was a demon incarnate with the making of a saint in him.

"Someone as beautiful as you shouldn't be so jaded," he said as a simple article of faith.

"Sometimes anger can help you survive."

"So can faith."

"What did you do in the circus?" She asked, turning the conversation back onto him when she recalled the posters in his room. Before they'd left, he'd taken them down and packed them away in a single case.

"I was—" he started, only to be interrupted by a shout from up front.

"Storm! I've found an active come unit."

* * *

 

Logan would have let sleeping mutants lie, but this wasn't his territory, so he let the kid take point.

Bobby proceeded to inform his parents of what he was.

They were gathered in the living room, and the atmosphere would have put the Spanish Inquisition to shame. The layout of the room lent itself well to an interrogation, with a couch on either side of a coffee table.

Mom, Dad, and Ronny Drake sat stiffly on one while Bobby and Rogue sat on the other. John stood behind Rogue, his rump perched on the edge of an antique side table in blatant disregard for the sharp glances that were shot his way from Mom. His lighter was out, and as usual, he toyed with the lid as if the monotonous sound of the ticking clock wasn't aggravating enough.

Logan stood in the doorway to the kitchen, nursing a fresh beer. The casual attitude was as false as one of Zen's smiles. In truth, he was covering the room, ready to act if things went pear shaped. He'd expected Dad Drake to be the first to fly off the handle, but the man proved to have a lot more in common with his eldest than first impressions led him to believe.

"So, uh, Honey," Madeline said, slipping into a nickname used when he was a far younger boy in her confusion, "when did you realize you were . . . um . . . that you were . . ."

"A mutant?" John tossed out, flicking his lighter open, closed, open, closed—

"Could you please stop doing that?" she said with asperity. This was her home after all, and she'd had enough of the teen's insolence.

"You have to understand," William jumped in, "we thought Bobby was going to a school for the gifted."

"He is gifted," Rogue interjected, inspiring a smile of gratitude from the boy beside her, whose pale face had more in common to a man being marched up the gallows than a youth talking to his parents.

"Of course, we know that," William countered. "We just didn't realize that he was—" Then, without warning, anger flared in the man that was composed of equal measures confusion and pain bordering on grief. "Why the hell didn't you  _tell_ us? What were you thinking Bobby? We're your parents, for God's sake! How could you keep this to yourself? How could you not trust us—how could you lie?"

"Dad," Bobby's voice trembled on the word as he choked on his own guilt and shame. "You don't understand."

"Obviously."

"Dad!"

"You lied, Bobby.  _Xavier_ lied. To my face! He kept your secret. What am I supposed to believe about him now, or this precious school of his? Or you? How many other secrets are you keeping from us?" He turned an angry face to Logan. "Just what is it you teach my son, 'Professor'?"

"Art," Logan grunted, "and it's just Logan."

"You show up without a word of warning or explanation. Apparently without even clothes of your own to wear. What's that supposed to mean?"

"We still love you, Bobby," Madeline's voice overrode her husband's agitated words. Her hand rose, reaching out to her son, before falling back. The aborted movement was one Rogue knew intimately. It was how everyone acted around her. Seeing his mother's hand falter like that was a bitter slice to her heart.

Madeline looked at her hand, then her son, and her hand again, as though it had become an alien appendage. The thought behind the hesitation was painfully obvious to everyone in the room.  _Am I afraid of my own child?_ She struggled to find an explanation, some rationalization that would take back the aborted movement: "It's just that the mutant problem is very . . ."

"What mutant  _problem_ ," Logan growled. The hair along the back of his neck prickled, reflecting his inner agitation.

". . . complicated," she finished, ignoring Logan completely.

Rogue attempted to lighten the mood and defuse the adults' anger. "You should see what he can do."

Everyone's eyes turned back to Bobby. He fidgeted on the couch for a second before reaching his hand out to his mother's teacup, ignoring how quick she jerked her hand away, and touched it with a fingertip. Instantly a layer of ice crystals grew around the rim and down the sides. Turning the cup over, he revealed the solid chunk of now ice tea. It fell into the saucer with a musical  _clink_. The tabby twined between Rogue and him, using his thigh as a launching pad to the table, where she began licking daintily at the tea.

"I can do a lot more," he said.

A light filled William's eyes, a dad's classic instinctive  _My boy did that!_ Kind of glow. What hurt him most about the whole thing was being cut out of the loop.

Mom was not amused, and she wasn't proud of the boy's freakish talent. As for Ronny, he leapt up from the couch and bulled his way out of the room, deliberately slamming his shoulder into John's chest as he passed.

The stairs thumped under his stomping feet as he pounded his way up the stairs. A second later, the slamming of his door resounded through the house.

Ronny Drake was a teen obsessed with privacy and personal space. He'd marked out his territory accordingly, with a huge sign on the door that shouted RONNY'S ROOM. STAY THE F**K OUT! Mom wanted to tear it down, but Bobby defused the situation by snatching a pair of panda stickers – so cute they made Powerpuff Girls look like monsters – and used them to cover the middle two letters. Ronny hated him for doing that, Bobby always played the hero, but at least he got to keep the sign.

But there, in the center of his private domain was a torn, bloody t-shirt. Not his. Not Bobby's because he had his own room. That meant a stranger invaded his space to leave the disgusting memento.

The TV caught his eye, turned to Fox News – more proof that his space had been invaded. He never watched the news, until now. The reporter doing his stand-up on the White House lawn wasn't interesting to him, instead his attention was caught by what the man was saying.

". . . in the wake of the assassination attempt on President McKenna, there are unconfirmed reports of a raid on what's believed to be an underground training facility for mutant terrorists based in Westchester County, New York . . ."

"Authorities refuse to comment, but it's believed that a national manhunt for multiple fugitives from the facility is now underway . . ."

Watching, absorbing the information like a hungry sponge, his eyes darted from the screen to the stained shirt and back. His expression changed. Bobby was his big brother, but he didn't know anything about the strangers he'd brought home with him, except that they creeped him out big-time.

Ronny's eyes narrowed, and he picked up the phone. He was doing the right thing, but he could feel terror hissing through his veins like poison at the thought of the mutants down stairs realizing what he was up to before the police arrived. Sucking in his lower lip, he pressed 911.

Downstairs, Madeline put her head in her hands. "Oh, God, this is all my fault," she moaned.

Before Bobby could think of a thing to say, John leapt in to make it worse.

"Actually," he said, "they've discovered males are the ones who carry mutant genes and pass them onto the next generation, so I guess that makes it" – he jerked his thumb towards Bobby's dad—"his fault."

William ignored the snarky comment, though his son looked ready to make the other boy eat the words.

Madeline's lips pinched into a thin line before she took a slow breath, re-centered, and took another stab at being a proper hostess: "And you," she said, nodding to Rogue, "you're all gifted?"

Rogue's eyes cut to John, slashing him with their intense glower. Instead of flinching back like most of the other males in the school, he shot her a grin. "Some of us more than others," she responded tightly. "Others shouldn't be allowed out in public."

"What's that?" William asked when something gave a low  _beep_.

Logan slipped the com device out of his pocket. "That's mine, 'scuse me." With that, he turned his back on the lot of them and slipped through the kitchen to the backyard porch. Madeline's next line felt like a phantom lash on his back, urging him out faster.

"Bobby," she said, "dear heart, have you tried . . . not being a mutant?"

John's laughter masked Bobby's tired sigh.

"Charley," Logan said, his face brightened at the voice that replied.

"Logan," Jean cried, "thank God it's you! We couldn't reach anyone at the mansion."

"No one's left," he replied bluntly. "Soldiers came."

In the  _Blackbird_ , all the strength ran out of Jean's body, making her sink into her chair. Even though they'd speculated over the possibility of hostile action; they'd always assumed the professors would be there to defend the children. They'd made the proper preparations for such an eventually, but none of them took it seriously. In their own way, they believed too much in their own press. Xavier's was a  _School_. How could anyone find it threatening enough to throw soldiers at?

"The children?" Getting those two words out was akin to coughing up broken glass.

"Some escaped," he reported, "but I don't know what happened to the rest."

Sparks flared around Jean as she shifted position, and she glared at Storm, whose anger supercharged the air inside the plane with electricity. Not good, generating a bolt of lightning while in flight was a recipe for death.

"We haven't been able to contact the Professor or Scott, either," she said. The conclusion was glaringly obvious to both of them. They were lost, too.

Storm's voice broke into the conversation over her own headset: "Where are you?"

"Quincy," he said. "Outside Beantown, with Bobby Drake's family."

"Do they—" Jean began, only to be cut off by the snort of amusement on the other end of the line.

"Oh, yeah!"

"All right," she said, leaning across to the center console to initiate the engine start-up sequence. "We'll be there soon."

"Storm?"

"Yes, Logan?"

"Make it quick."

The women shot each other a worried look, recognizing the subtle change in Logan's voice.

"Five minutes," Jean promised, locking her harness closed as she mentally told Nightcrawler to grab his chair and do the same.

"Make it quick," he repeated, signing off active radio, and leaving only the carrier signal for them to home in on.

Returning the com unit to his pocket, Logan patted his pockets for a smoke, sighed loudly when he couldn't find one, and reentered the house. Without turning, he snapped the lock shut on the door before stalking into the living room.

"Come on, time to go," he stated without preamble. "Now." The kids took their cue form him and leaped to their feet.

"What?" William asked.

"Why?" Rouge echoed.

"Now," he snapped. Sound and scent informed him that the clock had just run out. One assault team approached from the back, another out front, boxing the house in. Bobby's parents jumped, and William's arms wrapped around his wife, pulling her in close to his side as Logan's right-hand claws extended.

"What's going on?" Rogue demanded.

John mouthed a reply: "What d' you think?"

"Follow my lead," Logan told them.

Two cops waited on the front porch, covering the door with drawn guns. They locked on Logan as the main threat. A cruiser had been run half up onto the lawn, another partially blocked the street, its officers taking aim from behind the cover of their car. Sirens warbled in the distance, signifying backup en route.

Anger flared over Bobby's face. He knew what brought the cops down on them.

"Ronny!" he hissed under his breath.

Upstairs, Ronny watched the officers take position, anxiety gave way to excitement. This was too cool, way better than TV.

"You," the cop on the right barked at Logan, "get down on the ground."

"What's going on here?" Logan asked calmly.

The kids were frightened, reasonably so after the day they'd had. It was the second time they'd been threatened with guns, only these wouldn't fire stun darts. No, this was the real deal, 9mm, Glocks with fifteen-round magazines, and one of the cops on the street had unlimbered his shotgun. Logan could hear the sharp  _click, click, click_ of John's lighter. Unfortunately, the cops heard it too, and the sound made them more jumpy.

"Put the knives down slowly," the cop demanded. "Slowly. Then get down on your knees, cross your ankles, and raise your hands in the air. You kids do the same.  _Right now!"_

"Hey, bub, this is all just a misunderstanding," Logan said.

Inside, Bobby's parents were starting to understand what was happing on the porch when the glass in the kitchen door shattered beneath the brutal blow of a nightstick. They hardly had time to turn their heads before a trio of uniformed officers rushed into the room, guns up, all shouting at the top of their lungs: "Police!" "Nobody move!" "On the floor, on your knees, keep your hands where I can see 'em!"

Madeline's shriek cut across the shouts as William's protests were drowned out in the din. Bobby reacted like the good son; he tried to help. The cop on the left shifted his aim to cover the teen while his partner screamed louder: "PUT DOWN THE GODDAMNED BLADES!"

"I can't," Logan growled, in the back of his mind X paced restlessly, wanting to lash out at the threat. Gritting his teeth, he raised his hands to show the blades were a part of him.

The gunshot exploded in the confused space, taking them all by surprise.

The officer on the left had taken the shot, straight to Logan's temple. The close range blast threw Logan off his feet, twisting him as he fell so that he landed on his face, half sprawled on the stairs leading up to the door.

Rogue screamed and all the kids dropped. Bobby did his best to shield her body with his own, yelling as loud as he could for the cops to stop. "Don't shoot, don't shoot!"

Outside, a crowd of curious bystanders were gathering on the sidewalk across the street, drawn like moths to a headlamp by the cop cars flashing lights. The gun shot startled those close enough to see what happened, and they ducked as well. But mostly, folks continued milling uselessly about, intrigued, confused, like rubberneckers passing an accident. They were blissfully unaware of the danger they were in.

The cops were almost as startled as the children. The one who'd fired stood still as a statue, his weapon trained on Logan like he expected the dead man to spring back to life and attack. Or perhaps he was praying for him to do so, to take back the action of the last half minute.

"Easy," his partner yelled, in a voice meant to carry to the frightened civilians in the house as well as the ones loitering on the street. "Everyone talk it easy. Get a grip!" The last was directed at the shooter. His partner knew this was a bad scene, every shooting is for the officer involved, but under his breath he thanked God and all the saints that they hadn't popped the kids as well. That kind of mess would bring Hell down on the whole Department.

"Alright, kids," he said sternly, "same as before. Stay calm, we'll get out of this just fine."

"We didn't  _do_ anything!" Rogue shrieked at him.

"On your knees, girl!"

More furious words spilled from her lips, partially to bury her own terror, but most of all to keep their attention away from Logan. His adamantium lined skull would have kept the bullet from destroying his brain. All it did was gouge the skin, making quite a mess and giving him a brutal headache. His healing factor would deal with both wound and headache in seconds. She wasn't sure what he could do once he recovered. If he sat up, he'd end up shot a few dozen more times before the idiot officers realized bullets wouldn't work.

Bobby's hand laced with hers as they knelt, but John had other ideas. He stood up.

"Don't be stupid, kid," the left-hand cop said. "This is no time to flash attitude. We don't want to hurt you!"

John's attitude was plain on his face:  _Like I give a fuck_ , his smirking lips said,  _Like, you_ could?

"Hey," he said, "you know all those dangerous mutants you hear about on the news?" He paused, letting his words sing in.

"I'm the worst one."

With that, he popped the lid on his Zippo, but this time, he ignited a flame.

From the wick, three snakelike ropes of fire twined sinuously around him. One flashed out to the right, the other left, and the third burned it way through the door to scorch the main floor of the house.

Both cops dove off the porch in a bid to escape the roaring flames. The blaze scorched the backs of their uniforms, leaving their shirts smoldering. Those inside weren't so lucky. One was hit head-on, with enough force to slam him into his companions, who were forced to scramble to save him as his clothes caught flame.

John's focus turned to the police cars. It all happened so fast, and the attack was so shockingly savage, that the officers on the street didn't know how to cope. The news reports hadn't prepared them for mutants. In truth, none of them believed the reports. Now they couldn't believe a kid was doing all this damage.

They'd get over it real quick, John knew, if he gave them a chance to recover. But he had a better idea.

While they were occupied by the two main streamers he'd manifested to keep their attention, he directed a pair of slender strands along the surface of the lawn until they reached underneath the cars to their tailpipes. This would be so much fun.

The timing was superb. He lit both gas tanks at the same time, pitching both vehicles up into the air, flipping them over like toys tossed by an angry toddler. A third car rolled onto the scene, and John's grin turned savage as he surrounded it with a cataract of fire. The driver scrambled to throw the car into reverse, but John melted the tires to the street. Then the officers attempted to bail out of the unit, only to retreat as he turned the flames into a wall so thick and hot they'd be cinders before they took a single step. He saw one of them shouting into his radio.

This would be the best. He'd let them roast slowly in their pigmobile until the fire department arrived. He'd give them the illusion of hope, and then –  _kaboom!_  Instant funeral pyre.

Logan's eyes snapped open as the shattered remains of the bullet were expelled from the wound. Rouge was right, the headache pounding inside his skull was blue murder. While healing was a great power, no doubt about it, there was one major downside: The full sensations of the healing process were condensed down into fractions of time and, as a consequence, intensified to mind melting proportions.

While he'd learned long ago to endure the pain, and it passed quickly, it always remained a brutal experience to be avoided whenever possible.

Some of the other cops, the mutants on the porch forgotten, desperately tried to save the two trapped in the unit. John toyed with them a little, letting them almost break the fire-line before generating a flash furnace to force them back.

He didn't feel Rogue's bare hand close around his ankle as she grabbed him from behind. She didn't hold back like she had with Bobby, trying to tame a power that was as rebellious as her chosen name. This time, she let the power roar through her. It slammed into him like an iron bar against the back of his head. Without warning, John's eyes rolled back, and he slumped to the porch. With a soft clank, the lighter fell from his limp fingers.

Rogue's mouth twisted with disgust as his psyche flooded over hers like an oil slick. She wanted nothing to do with it, so she called up a burst of flame within her hand to torch the images as they appeared.

At the same time, now that she'd successfully imprinted his power, she held up her other hand in a summoning gesture. Her breath came in ragged huffs, in and out to the same metronomic pattern John established with his lighter. Her visual perception seemed to sew far away from normal to embrace the infrared. Her world shifted to one defined by the heat it generated. She could see the primary states of being on a molecular level, and she understood instinctively how to sustain and manipulate fire itself.

The raw passion of his power left her breathless. By playing with this elemental force, she became it as well, tasting an unbearable hunger that made her long to set the whole world aflame. It would be so easy—so much energy to torch a tree, so much for a vehicle, so much for a person. To her, they'd all become mere objects, without value or purpose outside of their use as fuel for the flames. It was temptation, a glory she'd never known or could imagine existed.

But she'd picked her name for a reason. Rouges don't play by anyone's rules unless they chose to do so, and they never ever did what was expected of them.

Focusing, she called the fire home – not merely the streamers John created, but all the conflagrations they'd birthed. On the street, the trapped car whose metal began to throb an angry red became instantly cool to the touch. All the other smoldering vehicles cooled.

In that moment, she burned, shrouded in flames from head to foot, so hot-hotter than a blast furnace – that Bobby pushed himself clear in an awkward crablike scuttle, dragging John with him to keep from burning along with her. Then the flames dwindled like a candle under a glass, leaving her unmarked, although the porch hadn't been so lucky. The wood beneath her feet had been deeply charred, and the roof over head groaned like a dying cow.

She swayed, and Bobby leapt to her side. Behind them, John stirred as the shock of her imprinting on him wore off. As the shock faded, he grabbed reflexively for the lighter and frowned at the sight of dark ash where his fires once blazed. No doubt he would have done or said something foolish enough to get them all killed—except that Logan also regained his feet.

The boys had never seen him shot before, and they didn't believe it any more than the watching cops did. They were too caught up in the aftermath of the moment they hadn't realized their danger.

Now they knew what they were up against, and they were shaken to the core. As far as they were concerned, it was their lives or the lives of these . . . monsters. They were ready to shoot, and keep on shooting until they ran out of ammo.

That was the moment Jean chose to land the  _Blackbird_  about a minute ahead of schedule.

Storm announced their arrival with a base roar of thunder that rocked the very air and a gust of hurricane force wind that sent both cops and onlookers tumbling. Jean made a combat approach, a vertical descent straight down to the street in front of the house. Between the crazy weather and the sleek, deadly looking aircraft, the cops didn't know what to think. Perhaps it was the military riding to the rescue?

As soon as the wheels touched down, Storm lowered the boarding ramp and waved Logan and the kids inside. No one needed a second invitation. The kids rushed into the safety of the jet like a small pack of wolf pups diving into a den. Logan followed at a more leisurely pace.

Movement caught the corner of his eye revealed one of the cops from the porch. He was the one who hadn't fired and had done his best to keep the situation under control before John attacked. He was a total mess, uniform torn and scorched, hair burned off, and soot all over his face, but he held his Glock with steady hands, determined to do his job.

Logan glanced at him and held his hands open at his sides to show they were empty, no claws. He didn't want a fight, never had, but the implication was clear: You know what'll happen if one starts, is that what you really want?

Their eyes locked for a second, for those watching it felt like an eternity.

Then, with a tremble, the officer's barrel went upward.

Logan gave the man a somber nod before making his way up the ramp. Jean smiled, the one that always made his body respond as the air around her filled with pheromones, and he dropped a wink in return. As he was checking the kids over to make sure their harnesses were fitted properly and that Rouge had come through the ordeal unharmed that Nightcrawler popped up from the row behind them. Rogue and John squeaked in unison – too many shocks over too little time. They'd reached their limit for the year.

" _Guten Morgen,"_  Kurt said.

" _Guten Abend,"_  Logan corrected. "Who the hell—"

Nightcrawler gave an artful bow, "Kurt Wagner,  _mein herr_. But in the Munich Circus I was billed as "The Incredible Nightcrawler,"

"Yeah, whatever. Storm?" He called.

"We're ready to roll," the reply drifted back to them from the flight deck.

"Not yet! We're one short!"

Bobby lingered in the hatchway. He hadn't boarded yet; instead he looked back at his childhood home, thinking of life before, and realizing that he wouldn't be able to go home again. Or if he did, it would never be the same. He'd never considered being a mutant in those terms before, never imagined the consequences of possessing powers like his might cost him his family.

As much as he hated the thought, he knew every memory of this house and his life here would be defined by this moment, the stink of burning rubber, wood, plastic, the weak moans of the injured, and the terrified cries of the bystanders, the sight of burned wood on the porch where he used to play, the burned hole where the front door had been.

In the upstairs window, he saw his parents and brother, and he know their faces would haunt him for the rest of his life. His father, shocked and hurt – not just by what happened with the police, but by his own sense of responsibility; if his son had come to this, then he'd failed as a father. His mother, sobbing, as if he'd been the one shot and was now dead to her.

He wondered if he could put an end to all that by going back. Like the old Cher song, "If I could Turn Back Time," he had to laugh a little at the childish yearning. Where was a useful mutant power when you needed one?

With an awkward jerk of his hand, he gave his family a final wave, and closed both ramp and hatch behind him.

Arrival to retreat took less than a minute. The engines screamed to life, and the  _Blackbird_  hovered over the roof tops for a few seconds to gain orientation before shooting away at an incredibly steep angle and speed that left those on the ground watching in stunned disbelief.

On the lawn, the officer holstered his gun, then thumbed the call button on his walkie-talkie to make sure the unit was working.

"Dispatch," he said when he got them calmed down enough to listen, amazed to find that he could speak after the afternoon he'd had. "All units are down. We have casualties. We need fire and rescue units onsite, ASAP. Perps positively identified as hostile mutants. Repeat, hostile mutants. They're mobile, escaping aboard some sort of high-performance aircraft, heading west and climbing fast. You'd best notify Hanscom Air Force Base. If we want these guys, they'd better scramble some interceptors right now! And tell them from us, good hunting."

But he couldn't help wondering, as he picked his way across the lawn towards the decimated squad car, if even the Air Force would survive against adversaries like these.

* * *

 

Cold radiated up into his flesh from the cement they'd been tossed onto. Around him, Zen heard the others beginning to wake. A shift of weight, the whisper of cloth against skin, a moan. His eyelids cracked open slightly, though he didn't move, keeping his body limp for those he knew were watching. The little he saw from his position confirmed his suspicions, and the smallest whisper of curiosity brushed across his cool thoughts.

Who had reopened this facility? Zen doubted it was his former Wielder, he'd never been fond of the place and deemed it a waste of resources. After they'd cleared it out the last time, it was shut down. Someone else must have taken over. But who?

"Damn it all to hell and back, what the fuck is going on?" Pietro's harsh voice echoed around the small room, drawing whimpers from some of the youngest children who were still fighting off the effects of the sedative.

Zen weighed the pros and cons of ignoring his roommate, but decided it was best to head him off before he got them all killed. Reluctantly, he sat up while the others started to stand and wander the large cement square that made up their prison.

Pietro's eyes seemed to burn holes in him as they locked on Zen's small figure. His features were a perfect replica of the frightened confused faces of the other children, so well-crafted Pietro almost couldn't find fault with it.  _He's getting better at that._

"Do not draw attention to me. I don't know who is leading this facility, but if they are connected to the previous owners it would be detrimental to the remnants of the school for them to figure out who I am." Zen's blunt words stopped Pietro's tantrum before it could get started.

His eyes narrowed, "Why wouldn't they recognize you just by looking?"

Now a tiny half smile flitted across his lips before it was gone, melting back into the frightened child mask. "Because they knew me as the emotionless killer, IX. They've never seen me afraid, or dressed like this, or only one among many scared children. Odd are eighty percent that I will be overlooked as long as we aren't examined face to face, unless you or the rest draw too much attention on me by attacking."

Pietro's glare intensified, and the other children started listening. "And why would I attack you? Were you behind this?" He raised a hand to encompass the cell. "Did you run back to your real master?"

"No, I am not to blame for this situation. However, I recognize this place."

Pietro took a step forward, forgetting the warnings.

"Stop." The word was as sharp as a bull whip cutting across his face, and he faltered. "I was created here. So was X. For now, Xavier is my Wielder. That will change if I'm confronted with my original Wielder. If that happens, you will all die, so will everyone else who'd been a member of Xavier's school. Die, or worse."

Fear encircled Pietro's throat like a snake, hissing taunts into his ear, and he could almost feel the straps closing around him again, making it impossible for him to move. Yes, he knew all about worse, though the kids with them didn't.

One of the younger ones touched one of the walls before Zen could stop him. Electricity shot up the kid's arm, making him yelp in pain and jump back. "Don't touch the walls, and whatever you do, don't attempt to use any active powers."

"Why not?" a young girl with frightened blue eyes asked.

"We are in a holding cell, and we're being observed. It is also a kill box." He nodded to the holes lining the wall at floor level. "If we attempt to break out, the room will fill with gas. It might be a sedative, or a poison. Either way, we will be rendered unable to act."

With his warning bouncing around Pietro's head, the speed mutant began to pace, forcing his body to remain slow. "Fine, I get all that rot. I don't like it, but it make sense. What doesn't make sense is why the fuck you're here. Why any of us are here. I thought you were some bad ass assassin, why did you let them take us?"

Zen looked at the scared faces of the children, watching him with hostile eyes. They needed someone to blame, and he'd always been the perfect scape goat. "I could have killed the soldiers I found, but it wouldn't have saved any of you. In a snatch and grab operation, if the mutant enclave proves too difficult to take, they shift to slash and burn. I'm good, I could have taken many of them, but not all. More importantly, not all at once. Even I can't be in multiple places simultaneously. When they realized what they were up against, they would have killed everyone they came across before torching the mansion."

He waited, letting his words sink in as he studied their faces. "I also wasn't trained in defending civilians while killing assailants. I couldn't protect the students and kill the soldiers at the same time."

Pietro snorted. "But you didn't do either! From what I can see, you just got caught. Just like the rest of us. Pathetic."

For half a heartbeat, the mask dropped, showing the yawning emptiness in Zen's eyes. Pietro flinched away from the look, remembering IX as he'd once been, back when he hadn't been leashed by Xavier. "I allowed myself to be captured, so that I would be able to protect the students who were taken. The ones who got away from the school will be safe as long as they don't stand out."

"So, what do we do?"

* * *

 

Charles Xavier loved the view from his office.

It was located up a level from the ground, creating a separation between the reception areas of the house and those rooms and areas where the household staff did their work. When he turned from his desk, he could look out through the massive bay window, across the tiled expanse of the terrace to the lawn and formal gardens below. When summer was upon them, it was the gardens that caught the eye, with its cavalcade of flowers and shrubs. Autumn, after the flowers faded and the leaves began to change, the trees beyond the garden became the centerpiece, painting the distance with a riot of orange fire, liquid scarlet, and gold. When winter came, if he awoke soon enough after a down fall, he could stare out at the unmarred yard, as beautiful and pristine as nature intended. Then of course the students of all ages would erupt from the house to embark on an endless succession of sled races down the far slopes, the construction of snowmen, snow beast, and snow angles, followed by the obligatory snowball fights. By the time the sun set on the first day, the snow was so trampled it reminded him of a beach under the onslaught of midsummer bathers.

But the moment he cherished most came in spring. The air, crisp with winter's last breath, began filling with the promise of new life, new hope. The garden would be scattered with dots of brightness and color. There would be green, but not if you looked at it head on. The color tickled the corners of perception, teasing the onlooker with hints of the coming glory.

A breeze ruffled the treetops, creating a low  _shushing_ sound he loved, and stirred his senses as it brought the heady mix of smells through the open window. While the pleasure was acute, it brought no smile to his face. Only tears. In the midst of this natural wonder that was so familiar and so comforting, he felt an inexplicable sense of loss.

There was a chess set perched on the windowsill, as if he'd been playing someone outside, although the terrace and grounds beyond – the whole school – was empty. The high laughter, raucous voices, and playful shouts of children were absent. Worse, the undercurrent of thoughts that once flavored the very air were missing. Not even a stray thought wafted through his mind.

He'd never known such aching silence, never felt so alone. For as long as he could remember, there were always other thoughts to reach for. Though he often refused to do so out of respect for the privacy of others, and to protect himself from being overwhelmed, it was still reassuring to know they were there. Just a thought away.

Now there was nothing.

Again his gaze returned to the chess set. He was white, and almost all the pawns were taken out. His king was in jeopardy, virtually checkmate, and while his queen remained on the board, she was too threatened to come to his aid. The only ally he had was a lone knight.

Thinking about the game made a headache throb in his temples, like heavy screws being twisted endlessly. He rubbed the spots to dispel the morbid image, but it did nothing to ease the pain. Perhaps a walk . . .

Xavier tripped over the unexpected thought, and realized he was standing up. Looking over his shoulder at his office, he was afraid to test the miracle, less it prove false. The room contained only normal furniture, nothing to suggest a wheelchair bound man worked here.

He closed his eyes and stretched his thoughts in an exercise he'd learned long ago to focus his abilities, the way he'd learned to float on the riptides of outside thoughts crashing around him instead of being pulled under by them. Gradually, as his control strengthened, he'd crafted a series of psychic levees to protect his fundamental personality, no matter how many minds washed around him.

When he'd waded through IX's memories, these levees were damaged, exposing his subconscious to the hatred and fear of both students and staff. Now they'd all been forced wide open, like gaping wounds in his mind. Xavier fought to keep his fury off his face when he recognized the source of his troubles.

"Jason," he said severely. "Stop it."

Jason's mind continued prying into his, digging with the cold relentlessness of a hungry badger. Xavier's arms jerked against the binds holding him in place. Clenching his eyes shut, he mentally clung to his most basic mantra, rebuilding the psychic foundations.

The first change was in perspective. The view out the window lowered, dropping by a third to the level of a tall man in a chair. Carved stone transformed into Sheetrock painted in institutional greens and beige and looked worse for wear. Natural sunlight brightened into a parody of itself, the low buzz of fluorescents. All his beloved things went away, replaced with a prison cell . . .

. . . and the monstrosity Stryker named Mutant 143 meshed painfully with the quiet frightened little boy sat across from him.

There'd only been one consultation. After the boy's DNA showed markers for the mutant gene, Stryker's contacts with in the American intelligence community led him to Xavier. He had no idea then that Xavier was a mutant, only an acknowledged expert in the field. He'd confirmed the boy possessed the requisite gene matrix and that it would likely be active once he hit puberty, he couldn't predict what form the child's power would take. Xavier suggested the boy attend his school during that volatile period, but Stryker refused to hear a word of it. He'd wanted his son cured. When Xavier told him it wasn't possible, the other man lost his temper. They left, and that was the last Xavier herd of Jason, even though, in the years that followed, he made a number of discreet inquires to determine what happened. Then word came that the boy died.

Sitting across from what the child had been twisted into, Xavier couldn't help thinking that would have been a kinder fate.

There was a shrill buzzing in Xavier's ears, rattling through his skull with the whining fury of a bone saw. The sound was pure murder, leaving his teeth bared and clenched in a perpetual grimace of pain. Stryker's neural inhibitor, doing its job.

To hell with the bastard and his insufferable toys.

"Jason," he said through gritted teeth, trying to avoid another burst of retaliation from the inhibitor, "you have to help me."

No response. Xavier tried again. And again. His eyes met the mismatched gaze of the poor creature in the other wheelchair, and ignored the boiling cauldron of emotion nakedly displayed there.

"You must help me," Xavier repeated. He had to crush the surge of elation he felt when the boy's mouth moved in concert to his words. No distractions until the job was done.

"You must help me," he said a final time. He could hear the soft echo from Jason, half a breath behind him.

With each repetition, Jason caught up with Xavier until their voices whispered in perfect unison.

At the same time, Jason's withered arms struggled up from his lap as his face contorted with rage. He extended them towards Xavier. His chair moved forward, bringing him within reach. Jason's hands settled on his shoulders like the skeletal talons of a large raven. Pulsing, burning eyes filled Xavier's vison. Then he felt those withered hands settle around his neck with such feeble strength it was like being grabbed by a toddler. Tears collected at the corners of Jason's eyes, sympathetic counterparts burned in Xavier's, but he couldn't read the emotions behind them, save for their primal, inhuman nature.

"Stand," Xavier said, putting the full force of his will behind the injunction.

"Stand," Jason repeated in the same tone, and again they said it until their voices synced.

His lips formed a wide O of astonishment and protest as Jason pulled himself erect. Liquid popping sounds added a disturbing counterpoint to the room when the junctions on all his connectors pulled free of their housings, allowing cerebrospinal fluid to leak from the port in his skull. His gaunt legs were as useless as his arms, but he managed to gain his feet. His hands rose with him, up from Xavier's throat, catching hold of the circlet of sophisticated electronics resting on his head like a crown of thorns.

The devise jerked off his head and clattered on the ground beside them, and the hornets' nest of bussing was silenced.

"Thank you, Jason," Xavier exhaled in relief as the pain vanished.

The boy's mumbled response came a heartbeat after his own, "thank you, Jason."

For Xavier, it felt like staring down at the world from Mount Olympus and watching all the lights flicker back into existence. First one thought came to him, and then the proverbial flood, the way the first drops of rain would herald in a hurricane.

For Charles Xavier, it was a rebirth of self, of purpose.

Jason's half dead fingers brushed his cheek gently, and he used the physical link to release the controls he'd established over the broken boy. It was like throwing a switch. All expression faded, and he lowered himself to his own chair. Xavier assumed the passion he'd witnessed earlier was only a reflection of his own.

"This shouldn't have happened to you," he told Jason. "I don't know what can be done to help you, but you have my word, I'll do whatever I can."

His mind filled with other things, blazing with excitement for his reawaked telepathy that he didn't see the flash in the boy's eyes that belied the quietude of his behavior.

Xavier wheeled himself towards the locked door, deliberately running the inhibitor over. He took rude pleasure in the sound of the delicate inner workings shattering under his wheels.

"Mr. Smith," he called, both with voice and thoughts, "are you there?"

Of course he was, his mind burned like a beacon to Xavier. The door clicked open as the guard's mind fell under Xavier's influence, and the restrains were removed from his arms. His companion guard stood where he was, ridged as a statue and as unseeing, as Xavier told him to.

"I arrived here with a friend," Xavier ordered, "take me to him."

Scott had been locked in a cell of his own, his optic blasters restrained with another one of the high-tech inhibitors. He was shackled to the bed, keeping him from removing the blinders.

"Remove his restraints," Xavier directed the guard.

Smith did as he was told, and his partner rushed forward with Cyclops's visor. Taking care to keep his eyes clenched shut, and away from any potential targets, Scott slid the visor on.

"Thank you," Xavier said to the soldiers before turning his attention back to Corporal Smith. "What's the quickest way out of here?"

"The helicopter, sir," came the reply. The man stood at attention, as if in the presence of a General.

"Take us there, now."

* * *

 

Over half the continent away, Bobby sat in the passenger cabin of the  _Blackbird_  and seethed. A few seats away, the focus of his righteous fury flicked his lighter cap open and shut with a smug grin.

"You think it's funny," Bobby hissed, refusing to give up even though the rest of the passengers stopped listening since they'd become airborne. "Let's go set fire to your house next time!"

"Too late," John said cheerily.

"You almost killed those cops, John," Rouge said.

"So?" John twisted in his seat too look her in the face. He spoke with exaggerated care, as if explaining the most basic of facts to the terminally dimwitted. "Logan would have," he shot a narrow look at the man across the aisle, "if he hadn't been shot in the head."

Logan ignored the children's spat, refusing to be drawn into their inane chatter. He wouldn't be forced into their discussion because both sides had valid points. John was right, given the circumstances, he would have charged the cops and used lethal force to protect the children. But he also sided foursquare with Rogue. Just because he was willing to shoulder the karmic burden didn't mean it was right for the kids to do the same. Hell, it probably meant the opposite.

Like an angelic deliverance, Jean saved him by calling him up to the flight deck. He clambered up to join her and Storm. Let the kids debate philosophy without him.

"They'll be all right," she promised. Unconvinced, his lips pealed back in a silent snarl. X flared in his gaze for a second before fading back. He crouched down behind the cockpit seats and examined the dials and display screens. Jean stared at him, first at his reflection in the window screen, then at him as she turned to face him directly. There was a time when he would have welcomed such attention, but the direct gaze made him shift on the balls of his feet. X rumbled in the back of his mind like a lion scenting a rival.

She picked up on the cue, from his body language or thoughts, and pressed further. Jean reached out and used her thumb to swipe at a streak of blood on his forehead where the bullet struck back in Boston. She didn't move her hand away, but continued stroking him with her thumb, a soft caress right over the healed wound.

Heat filled him, and he wanted to take her hand. He wanted to kiss her lips, and lose himself in the wild scent of her hair. He wanted –

Again X rumbled deep in his minds, a cold protest. In this they differed. Though X could taste the female's scent on their tongue, it did not move him like it did Logan.

Not wanting to battle his alter ego here on the jet, he settled back on his heels, moving away from the enticing touch. "So," he said, taking refuge in the proprieties, "any word from the professor?" Seeing a faint quirk at the edge of her lips when she shook her head, he remembered. "Or Scott?"

"Nothing," she confessed.

"How far are we?"

"We're coming up on the mansion now. Once Storm whips up a bit of cover—"

"I've got two signals," Storm's voice broke in, "coming in fast."

Accompanying her warning, a proximity alarm blared to life. Red lights flashed on the main console, and the display shifted channels to a radar field. There were two ominous blips approaching from behind. The plane's onboard computer informed them that they were F-16s, armed and attempting to paint the  _Blackbird_  with their target acquisition systems.

Turbulence rocked the  _Blackbird_  as the Falcons shot past to announce their presence. Then the matched pair throttled back to pace the larger aircraft, taking up flanking positions on either side. Both pilots gave the hand signal for the  _Blackbird_  to descend. Their point was repeated over the radio: "Unidentified aircraft, this is Air Force two-one-zero on guard. You are ordered to descend to twenty thousand feet and return with our escort to Hanscom Air Force Base. Failure to comply at once will result in the use of extreme force. Do you acknowledge?"

When they failed to respond, the fighter piolet repeated the instructions.

"Well, someone's angry," Storm pointed out.

"I wonder why," Logan muttered in response, throwing a glare over his shoulder at John. He remained in the shadows so the flyboys would only see the pair of women at the controls. Nightcrawler began praying again, and the kids aft demanded answers; they weren't shy about sounding scared, either.

Jean glanced over at Strom, then back at Nightcrawler. She made her decision.

Logan was about to ask, "what now?" when the lead fighter took the choice out of their hands.

"We're marked!" Storm cried as the  _Blackbird's_  systems confirmed the dire news. "They're going to fire!  _Strap in!_ "

Storm slammed the throttles to their firewalls and pointed the sleek black aircraft up toward the stars. Like an unbroken stallion, the jet shot skyward, and Logan was forced to grab hold of the back of Jean's chair with one hand while the other shot out to grab Nightcrawler with the other. Strangest damn feeling ever as a man a head taller than him wrapped around his arm like a God damned monkey and use it to climb up to his torso.

A minor shudder rocked through the jet as it broke the sound barrier. In their wake, the F-16s went to afterburner and tore after them. More alarms bleated on the display as two smaller blips separated from the pursuing fighters and began closing the distance between them.

"Who are these guys?" Bobby shouted from the back. "What the hell is happening? Why won't they leave us alone?" Panic laced his voice, making the words break.

No one up front paid him the slightest attention. They had enough trouble without attempting to coddle the children.

"What's the threat?" Logan demanded.

Jean nodded towards the display: "Sidewinders. They're heat seekers, and we give them minimal profile with our exhaust. We can't shake them."

"Everybody hang on!" Storm shouted as she and Jean swung the wheel over hard.

The  _Blackbird_  peeled off to the left, twisting over into a barrel roll that allowed them to reverse direction without requiring a wide turn. The missiles, closed in on where the plane had been, and triggered their own proximity sensors, detonating in a minor fireball to far behind the jet to do any damage. In response, the pursuing fighter shot off in opposite directions to take them in a pincher maneuver.

Storm jinked them the other direction, turning headlong in the direction of one of the fighters, forcing both to maneuver to prevent a collision. Nightcrawler lodged himself deep into a corner, holding on with hands, feet and tail while praying for all he was worth. Aft, John finally ran out of smart ass comments as he scrambled for a barf bag.

"They're not backing off," Storm said, "And they're not giving me the opportunity to outrun them.

"Don't we have any weapons in this freaking heap?" Logan demanded while the fighters struggled to regain position. The girls were god, but the men were trained professionals at the height of their career. They weren't about to lose a dog fight. Storm shot a glance at Jean before releasing her hold on the controls, Jean had the aircraft now.

White crept over Storm's eyes, making her look blind as the air around her became supercharged with electricity. Jean flicked a line of switches to disengage the systems on her side of the cockpit to keep them from shorting out. The precaution wasn't quite enough. Performance on the main displays began to degrade as static began to snow across the screens.

Through the canopy, Logan watched the clouds grow and darken from soft lambs' wool fluff, to something with teeth as the storm built into a series of thunderheads. Lightning formed malicious eyes in the darkening sky as thunder gave the storm a voice to roar. On the ground, people would be scattering, wanting to get into shelter as they cursed the weatherman for another epic fail.

On the radar, in spite of the electrical interference, he could see the storm take shape. To his uneducated eye, it looked nasty. Yet, without hesitation, Jean dove right for its gaping maw.

The Falcon drivers couldn't know what to make of the freakish weather, and didn't care. They followed.

Then the midnight clouds began to twist, faster and faster as Storm played the pressure gradients and temperature like a master pianist at her instrument. She crafted patterns more common to the Great Plains than the northeast, and great rams of high-pressure cold blasted hot low pressure air. The volatile cocktail generated maelstroms of tremendous force that gave birth to airborne tornado.

Inside the  _Blackbird_ , the ride was anything but smooth. The aircraft jerked and jounced as if they were roaring over potholes the size of North Carolina. Wind crashed into the hull like a wave. One minute they were in clear air, and the next they were fighting their way through sheets of rain, then pelting ice. The only thing that remained constant was that visibility was nil and maneuverability worse.

As hard as it was for them, Logan didn't want to imagine how their Pursuers were fairing. He had to admit, the men's balls were made of steel. Here's hoping it wouldn't attract the lightning. There were over a dozen whirlwinds, twisting across the sky in impossible horizontal and vertical lines. They formed a near impenetrable gauntlet no aircraft stood a chance of surviving.

Still, the bastards gave it their best run. They squeezed out every drop of courage and skill they possessed to close in enough to lock on their target.

"We're marked," Jean cried out.

Storm responded by catching the nearest fighter between a pair of tornados, tearing the plane to bits. Wreckage glittered as it was thrown across the sky like a handful of confetti. In the blink of an eye, the pilot found himself ripped out of his craft and into the teeth of a storm fiercer than he could imagine, let alone remember.

The most amazing moment came after he was in freefall. In those first seconds, his mind flashed on his wife and children. Then, like the hand of God, something reached out and enfolded him in a sphere of calm. Yes, he was still falling, but it was as though the storm lost interest in him. He could have been falling through a clear summer sky on a training exercise. The wind didn't touch him, nor the rain, even though he fell through miles through the darkest and most frightening pile of cumulonimbus thunderheads he'd ever seen. His parachute opened without difficulty, and he drifted down into a smooth landing a little outside of Syracuse.

His wingman knew none of this. All he saw was his fellow pilot disintegrate, heard the final terrified squawk over the radio before all contact was severed. He made the logical assumption, and just like that the fight became personal.

Like great hunting beasts, the tornados came for him. He skirted around them with skillful daring, pushing his interceptor beyond the edge of its flight and combat dynamics in his determination to make the kill. He refused to yield, wouldn't lose them now, and as the increasingly desperate maneuvers progressed, he gained the height advantage.

All Jean wanted was to end the chase, to use the  _Blackbird's_ superior power to put so much distance between them that he'd never be able to catch up. But if she rolled to the side or turned tail, the Falcon would take its shot. If she attempted to play chicken with him, he had a shot.

Storm's temper got the better of her. Logan jerked back when small flickers of lightning began to spark from her eyes and the interior of the flight deck rumbled with the base growl of thunder. Outside, all the subordinate funnels coalesced into a single great megatornado that expanded until its cone engulfed first the  _Blackbird_ , and then the Falcon on her tail.

Swift as her power was, the pilot got his shot off before his craft went the way of his wingman. He popped a pair of slammers: AIM-120 AMRAAM "fire-and-forget" air-to-air missiles. Even as he bailed, the storm around him abated to give him a smooth right to the ground, he knew had the target nailed.

Brilliant explosions high in the atmosphere confirmed the blast. When he was picked up over the Canadian border, he reported the confirmed hit.

Jean forced the  _Blackbird_  through a series of missile avoidance maneuvers. The jet twisted catlike in a vertical rolling scissors, napping back and forth across her base course violently enough and often enough to break the radar lock the slammers had on them. She attempted to use a high speed, high-G barrel roll to flip up and over the missiles and come in behind them. Fat lot of good that did, the damned missiles were impossible to shake.

Without speaking, she slapped Storm's arm and gave the other woman the controls. They were leaving the storm behind, although the air and ride remained bumpy. It was of little use now. The rockets were too small and fast for her power to knock them out. Their survival depended on Jean.

The one blessing in the whole mess was that as Storm scaled her power back, the radar cleared up. Jean had a clear view of their foes. All she had to do was slide her consciousness down the invisible line connecting the  _Blackbird_  to the missiles.

Storm smoothed their flight pattern out, sacrificing maneuverability for raw speed as the variable-geometry wings folded close to the hull, creating an airfoil ideal for high-mach hypersonic flight. If they had an extra fraction of a second, they could have outrun the damned missiles, drawing out the chase until they ran out of fuel. But they were too close, and far faster than the planes that launched them. The time it would take the  _Blackbird_  to reach full speed was time they didn't have.

As the missiles struck the invisible barrier Jean threw up in their flight path, Jean's body jolted, responding to the impact. She gritted her teeth and threw another telekinetic boulder at them. For every obstacle she threw in their path, they blasted through, and the impacts translated themselves in physical terms so each one felt like a round house kick to the gut. But the succession of punishing blows only hardened her resolve. She wasn't using finesse in attempting to manipulate the missiles' flight-control surfaces or even trying to grab hold of them to toss them away. That was too great a risk. If her control slipped, they'd slide through her mental fingers like an oily marble.

Distantly, she registered a soft cry of elation from the seat next to her and felt a pronounced wobble on the trajectory of the nearest missile. Again she struck it, and again, cursing it in terms that would have impressed Logan had he heard them. She was furious with herself for not having the raw power she needed to get the job done with a single psychic slap.

Heat pulsed inside her, twisting in time with her frantic heartbeat. It filled her up, not like a physical sensation so much as a spiritual one. There was a strange sound in the distance, like a carillon fanfare, a call to glory that made her body ache to answer. It was like a window opening onto possibilities unnumbered. It registered to her as music on one level, but on another she understood it was so much more. It sang to her of fulfillment, but of what she couldn't know.

"Jean," Storm's voice came to her from a great distance away, in the opposite direction of the fanfare, and for a moment she was torn between the two. "How are you—"

The last shot did the trick, and the missile shot straight up so its proximity fuse, mistaking its fellow missile for the target, detonated. She'd been aiming for a double kill.

Aft, in the rear of the passenger cabin, John had long since run out of barf bags, and ruined his borrowed clothes. Bobby didn't feel much better, although—since his uncle was a Gloucester man who'd made his living fishing the Grand Banks and delighted in taking his favorite nephew on the occasional jaunt—he'd developed a cast-iron stomach in self-defense.

Rouge, on the other hand, had a lot more trouble than a queasy stomach. The  _Blackbird_  utilized a seat harness; a four-point military-style restraint system that required passengers to lock themselves in at takeoff. She'd been chatting with Bobby at the time, who'd been badly shaken by what happened at his house, and hadn't buckled in. In addition, her mind had still been clouded by what she'd learned from John to even think about safety. Once the dogfight began, she'd found it impossible to get the straps to close around her.

All the insane maneuvers forced her to cling to her seat for dear life, just to keep from turning into a hockey puck bouncing off the walls, floor and ceiling. Every time she got ahold of one of the blasted buckles, it wouldn't lock into the mechanism. She'd think one was anchored, but when she tried to close another, the first popped open. It happened so often that she was ready to cry and was forced to believe the plane was doing it on purpose.

Biting her lower lip, she forced herself to focus on Jean's training. She took big, deep breaths. Even though she was still terrified, she tried not to let it matter so much as, one by one, she gathered the buckles and stained to get them into place.

It would work. Everything would be all right.

Up front, three pairs of eyes – blue, brown, and green – stared as if hypnotized at the radar screen and the big white blotch less than a mile behind them. Things were looking good. They would be fine.

Then the panel bleeped in alarm, and the second missile tore free of the debris field, still locked and closing in fast.

There were only seconds to spare before it would hit.

Jean threw everything she had into its path, forcing her concentration to the point where time and space began to drift away from her, and the very fabric of the world seemed to ripple. Around her, the world faded, and she no longer perceived herself surrounded by the solid walls of the plane. Instead, she witnessed the glittering atomic and molecular materials that formed it. The world around her became a panoply of stunning pinpoint lights and colors, shot through with visuals of unbearable emptiness, as though reality were a mere illusion, with all the false substance of a dream.

A sharp copper sweetness tickled the back of her throat as her nose began to blead.

The proximity alarms grew shriller as the missile closed the space between them. Jean gave a final brutal swing – and missed.

To her horror, the missile's course didn't waver.

"Oh, God," she gasped.

Inside the confines of the  _Blackbird_  it felt as if they'd been stepped on by a giant. The large plain bucked downward under the crushing pressure wave. Metal shrieked, echoed by the shrill almost human wail of shrapnel as it punched a series of holes in the roof.

Decompression finished the job, blowing out a major section as the plan's velocity tore the piece away. The cabin was invaded by winds greater than any hurricane. Rogue's botched attempt at harnessing herself held for half a frightened heart beat before, to her untold horror, the buckles disengaged and she was swept screaming up and out of the gaping hole, into the sky beyond.

Everyone witnessed the unbelievable situation, but only one had the power to act.

Nightcrawler vanished, the low  _bamf_ of his departure and the smoke were both swept away by the relentless wind.

Rogue's mind froze, even as her limbs flailed uselessly against the air. This was the sort of thing that happened in movies, real life didn't prepare a girl for a situation like this. That thought jolted something in her frazzled mind, and she remembered a documentary she'd seen once on sky diving. She got her shaking limbs under control and spread them out wide in a vain attempt at stabilizing herself. At the same time she howled with laughter at the absurd action. What was the point of stability now? So she could see the ground more clearly as it came up to crush her. She doubted even Logan's ability to heal would be able to save her when that happened.  _At least it'll only hurt for a second._

That's when the demon caught her. His indigo skin made it hard to see him against the dark clouds left over from the previous storm. He blasted out of nowhere with the sort of graceful skill that could only come with experience in skydiving. Then he wrapped himself around her, arms, legs, and tail. And teleported.

When asked later, she wouldn't have been able to describe where she'd been in the second they were in transit. The cold from the in between chilled her to the marrow, far colder than Bobby's power could. It held a flavor of silence that had nothing to do with the absence of sound. There was a maddening disorientation that made her wonder if all her parts came along for the ride.

It held a terrible nothingness, as though they'd traveled in the black spaces found between the stars. Then she was once again whole, and the pair dropped the last couple of feet to the wind-torn deck of the  _Blackbird's_ main cabin. Which, in Rogue's opinion, was the last place she wanted to be since the plane was still in the nightmarish process of crashing.

Over the chaos, Storm shouted their diminishing altitude as Jean strained to pull the plain out of the spin. The blast crippled the flight controls, and they had minimal hydraulics, which made the act of turning the wheel or controlling the yoke akin to bench pressing a small elephant. There was a flameout on one engine, and possible damage to the other, which was utterly ignored as they rammed its throttle past the firewall in a vain attempt to stabilize their descent.

Logan braced himself and took hold of the yoke, his hand resting beside Jean's as he added his strength to hers. They'd made it back into breathable atmosphere, which was good, however it also meant they were almost out of sky.

Again, Storm's eyes flared white as she attempted to bring the winds to their aid to check their headlong fall. But for all her passionate will, she was still bound by nature's laws. She wasn't able to create a wind strong enough to cushion their landing in the space they had left.

"You can fly," Jean said, "Grab the kids and get out!"

As she spoke, Jean attempted to use her teke, but the well was bone dry. While she had will to pare, her strength couldn't begin to match the terrible momentum of their descent.

Without thought, she responded to the surge of emotion that caught them both by surprise, and covered Logan's hand with her own. The look he saw when he met her gaze was a revelation he knew would break both their hearts, and yet it was a moment and a memory he would carry always.

Storm forced her harness open and shoved past them as she called to the kids.

Strangely, it was Nightcawler, still clinging tight to Rough, who replied.

"Um . . . Storm?" his tail twitched once, pointing up towards the roof.

Her eyes followed where he directed, and she didn't bother hiding the stunned amazement that filled her face as the fabric of the hull writhed in a parody of life. Dark tendrils of metal alloy polymer danced across the hull spares as if they were serpents on a mission. The spars themselves that had twisted under the force of the explosion, politely straightened themselves as the roaring wind in the hull diminished into a tired whisper before vanishing.

All around them, the hull repaired itself until the entire craft returned to level flight.

Logan shot Jean a questioning look, wondering if she'd done it. Her baffled eyes told the story, and she didn't even need to shake her head no. Still, she kept her hand on his, tightening the grip as she laced her fingers with his.

They were still a few hundred feet in the air, but the velocity had dropped down to less than a hundred knots. As they dropped, they lost nearly ten knots for every ten feet they fell, until eight feet off the ground, they came to a low jolting stop. The plane hung above the ground in defiance of gravity for almost a full minute before anyone had the good sense to engage the landing great.

Jean broke her grip on Logan's hand to slap the big landing lever from the top to the bottom of its cradle. There was a low groan and a dull thump. A status light on the consul confirmed that the landing gear had successfully let down and locked.

There was another understated thump as they came to rest on the ground in the most peculiar landing any of them had ever experienced.

In the back, the kids let out a ragged cheer.

On the flight deck, the relief of not crashing into a massive fireball collapsed under the sight of who was waiting for them. The  _Blackbird_  had been set into a forest clearing hardly bigger than the plane. At the far edge of the clearing, tucked beneath the cool shelter of an evergreen, was a sleek black limousine. Hardly the sort of vehicle used for a camping trip, but then again, the pair waiting for them weren't the sort who roughed it, either.

Mystique waved at Jean and Logan from where they stood midway between the nose of the  _Blackbird_  and their car. Magneto once again donning his signature outfit of black and grey, held out a hand in welcome.

"I set you down gently," he said in a pleasant, welcoming tone, the kind you'd expect to hear from a beloved grandfather, "will you hear me out?"

* * *

 

Magneto had chosen an excellent place to hide, even without the stealth netting Storm and Logan rigged across the hull. Jean wanted to help, but her overused power took a physical toll as she'd discovered when she attempted to climb out of her piolet's chair. Yes, the spirit was more than willing, but the flesh . . . so was not. She hadn't had the strength to move, and Logan carried her out to the playful teasing of the students.

The encampment was ensconced within a line of large hills, or baby mountains depending on your perspective, that formed a sloping valley with a north-south orientation. The depression had been carved out of the landscape by plow like glaciers long ago. It was still technically wilderness, with no road access within a fifty mile radius. Rough going on foot, and impossible by vehicle. Magneto brought his limo in the same way he'd caught the  _Blackbird_ , with his power.

For both Storm and Jean, that proved a daunting revelation. The plane had been crafted with Magneto's specific power in mind, to make as impervious to him as possible, yet he'd grabbed ahold of it and repaired it with unbelievable ease.

The cliff formed a strong wall at their backs, and every other direction gave way to thick trees. It was an old-growth forest with timber that had never known the cruel bite of an ax. Some of the firs stretched up over thirty meters above their heads. The country was rugged, and made no concession to modern man or the amenities of modern society, as the children figured out when they decided to explore and immediately lost their way.

Logan tracked them with the ease of a hungry predator, and in the back of his mind he felt the alien thoughts of X sliding beneath his own, whispering of blood. He made it clear that the next time they wandered off, they'd be on their own.

"Think they'll listen?" Jean asked him when he'd returned.

He gave a low snort. "That'll be the damned day. Especially John. He'll do it again just to spit in my eye." Then his expression sobered. "How you doing?"

"Fine, thank you," she replied, twining her fingers together and stretching her arms up until the joins gave a satisfying crack. "Just being lazy at this point."

"You're entitled."

"Absent the circumstances, and the company," she added with a pointed flick of her eyes towards the limo, "I'd agree with you. I've been monitoring GUARD." She stated, meaning the military command frequencies. "Both pilots made it to the ground safely." Logan's lips curled in a dissatisfied snarl. While he could grasp her impulse to save them intellectually, he couldn't give a flying fuck. Guy tries to kill him, the guy takes his chances. No bitching, no tears.

"The second pilot reported us as a probable kill," Jean reported.

"They buying it, the brass?"

"Well, Ororo didn't entirely dispel the storm. It's still raining pretty hard over the probable crash site, zero-zero visibility, and no hope of flight operations until it clears, which she assures me," a hint of a grin curved her lips, "won't be for a while yet. The system seems to have stalled, leaving the meteorologists baffled."

"If it was me, I'd keep looking."

"Hence our precautions," she nodded towards the netting, shrouding the plane and car. "Even enhanced imagery won't spot the plane, and our heat and electronic emissions are near zero. By the time we've finished setting up, we'll look like a camping party, nothing more. There should be nothing here to merit a second glance."

"Except for him," Logan nodded, jutting his jaw in the general direction of Nightcrawler, who was carrying a tent pack over to where Mystique had cordoned off their campsite.

"No matter what happens, we'll deal with it," Jean said.

"Tell me, how many people are there in the world with that color skin and those eyes?"

"How many are blond and blue, or redheaded with green eyes?"

"I don't believe in coincidence."

Her tone grew sharp. "And I don't believe in judging someone without giving them a fair chance. You of all people might appreciate that."

Logan snorted, and had to bite the inside of his cheek to snap back:  _What about Zen? You're still judging him._

With a low grunt of effort, she regained her feet. Logan didn't offer his hand as Jean strode towards the open hatch of the  _Blackbird_. He glared at her back before turning dark whisky eyes towards Nightcrawler. It wasn't that he had anything against the German, and could admit that he liked the strange mutant to a degree. But the attack on the mansion, now finding himself in close proximity to a man he'd cheerfully slaughter, had put his dander up. Jean was too much like Xavier, always determined to see the brighter angles of humanity, at least when the human wasn't Zen. Trust was a near impossibility for him because he'd walked to long and too far with killers. He knew, deep in his heart, the cost of betrayal.

In truth, he felt like he'd already failed once by being caught by surprise at the mansion. He wouldn't let it happen twice.

Mystique was playing task master, overseeing the layout of the camp. Logan was forced to admit the woman knew her stuff. She knew he was watching, and if she was bothered by the attention, she didn't let it show. In fact, she seemed to be amused by his heavy gaze.

The faint smell of a detritus striker generating a spark again and again came to him on the wind, and he gave a feral grin. The kidlets were playing Boy Scout. How cute.

Bobby failed to share that amusement as his repeated and failed attempts to use John's lighter to torch some kindling led to boundless frustration. He'd used paper, twigs, dry leaves, but they all refused to hold a flame. In all that time, he could feel John's gloating stare as he sat on a log behind him, silently chortling at his failure.

"You know, you could help," Rogue snapped at John. All the expression melted from his face as he looked up at her with icy unreadable eyes.  _Still not as cold as Zen's,_  she couldn't help thinking. John might think he was a bad ass, and see them all as little more than kindling, but he still couldn't match Zen for sheer serial killer coldness.

Forcing himself to ignore everything going on around him, Bobby carefully followed a couple sparks as they landed on a leaf. He knelt on the ground and gently huffed to help excite them into a true flame as they burned through the leaf and left a glowing boundary that slowly gobbled up the leaf. Then, he saw the smallest ghost of a flame and the embers glowed. He bit back a cheer as he grabbed more tinder to feed the baby flame.

Then, with speed enough to rival a striking snake, Rogue's hand caught him by the back of his shirt and jerked him clear. His subconscious goaded his muscles in that same moment in kinetic response to the threat his conscious mind wasn't aware of.

The tiny dancing flame exploded into a roaring pillar of hungry fire, hot as a blast furnace that leapt nearly ten meters before melting down into a cheery little campfire.

Bobby twisted around to face John, but lost his balance as he did so, ending up in an awkward sprawl on the grass. The fall kept John from being on the receiving end of a roundhouse punch to the face. Both Rogue and Bobby glared at John, only to receive a purely angelic smile in return.

Without a word, John held out his hand in silent demand for the borrowed lighter. Bobby was tempted to lock the damned thing in a block of ice so thick, John wouldn't be able to lift it. But, as he'd been taught at Xavier's, he regained control of his rage and dropped the lighter into John's palm. Then he and Rouge turned their backs on him and walked away. When they were back at school, if there was a school still standing when they returned, Bobby would insist on getting a new roommate. John crossed way to many lines this trip, and Bobby planned on washing his hands of the other teen.

Once everyone had settled down, they ate dinner. Nothing too fancy, or in need of cooking since the fire was mainly for comfort than anything else. The seating arrangement belied their adversarial lines. Magneto and Mystique sat on one side of the fire, while Jean, Storm and Logan took their places on the other. Everyone but Logan was seated. He'd positioned himself behind them with a clear shot at Magneto. Though is stance was casual, no one was fooled. The question that hung in the air between them all was whether or not he could reach the older man before Magneto took control of him via the metal lacing his bones.

Magneto sat in a camp chair, his confidant posture making the lowly object almost regal as Mystique crouched beside him like a wild thing. Her movements were so liquid smooth it was hard to believe there were solid bones beneath her skin. Ice hung in the air, dancing on the wind in cold promise of winter, which made the fire more welcome. Magneto despised the cold, and had since his time in Auschwitz when the cold killed as easily as the Nazis. Mystique didn't appear to be phased by the fringed air. Instead, she walked around naked, using only modified ridges of decoration to hide her modesty while daring the world to comment.

Jean sat on her knees and heels in a Japanese stance that demonstrated her natural grace to perfection. She, too was playing a role, presenting herself in a submissive posture that was anything but. Like a lioness waiting in the tall grass, she could wait like this for hours, yet remain constantly poised to attack if prey wandered too close to the kill zone. She barely glanced at Magneto, yet Logan knew her focus was locked as tightly to the man as his own.

Of them all, Storm was the most natural as she tended the fire, feeding it measured lengths of wood while using her control of the winds to feed a continuous breeze through the base of the fire, keeping it hot. She sat cross-legged, in a position she'd learned as a child out on the Great Rift Valley, wandering with the Masai.

In a move that proved they weren't entirely without sense, the kids kept their distance, as did Nightcrawlwer.

Logan relayed the story of what happened at the mansion, and Magneto told them of Xavier's and Scott's capture.

"Our adversary," Magneto said, "his name is William Stryker. He was high placed in the national intelligence community before he went rogue. He specialized in clandestine operations and was ostensibly accountable to the President. Now that he's broken with the formal Government, we see he always had his own agenda."

"What does he want?" Jean asked.

Magneto graced her with a look that made his feelings plain:  _Isn't that obvious, child?_  But Logan interrupted before he could say anything too scathing.

"That's the question we should be asking you," Logan challenged.

Magneto bowed his head in lofty acknowledgement, as if they were little more than children to be catered to.

"When Stryker invaded your mansion, he stole an essential piece of its hardware."

"Cerebro?" Jean forced herself to ask, even as her mind tried to deny the truth. "Stryker would need the professor to operate it."

"Precisely," Magneto replied. "Which is the only reason Charles is still alive."

"So what's the deal?" Logan demanded. "Why are you all so scared?"

Magneto was the one who answered. "While Cerebro is working, Charles's mind is amplified by its power. He has the potential to connect with every living mind on the planet. If he concentrated hard enough on a specific group of people – let's say mutants, for example – he could kill us all."

"You've got to be kidding."

"Charles and I built Cerebro as a tool," Magneto continued as if Logan hadn't interrupted, "one I believed, we both believed, would unite the world."

" _Liar!_ " Storm's voice cut across the conversation like a fork of lightning.

Magneto met her gaze and saw in her eyes the character of a woman who'd once faced down lions bare-handed.

"You wanted to use Cerebro as a weapon against nonmutants," she said in the same cold, devastating tone. "But the Professor wouldn't permit it."

He didn't bother trying to defend himself. "Now, I fear, he has no more choice in the matter."

* * *

 

"Can you hear anything?" Bobby asked Rogue from their place at the other end of the campsite.

"What?" she asked, shooting him a look that questioned his sanity.

"I dunno, I thought, y'know, since you imprinted on X-"

"His name is Logan," she snapped in a harsh whisper. Even though her senses weren't sharp enough to catch the adults' conversation, she knew Logan's were keen enough to hear them just fine if he wanted. Jean could no doubt hear their thoughts as well. "And I can't, okay?"

"Okay," he whispered, "sorry I asked."

John, staring moodily into the campfire, snorted at the placating tone.

"I beg your pardon," Nightcrawler's accented voice broke into their whispered discussion, his yellow gaze the only part of him visible against the gathering shadows. "I can get a closer look."

Bobby and Rogue nodded eagerly in agreement, not liking the feeling of being left in the dark. The yellow eyes vanished with a low  _bamf_  of imploding air and a distinctive scent of smoke and brimstone.

"Nice," Bobby whistled.

John waved a hand in front of his face, "yeah, sure. Mutant teleport farts. Real nice."

Nightcrawler didn't hear the last comment but even if he had, he wouldn't have been bothered by it. There wasn't a joke or comment he hadn't heard about the by-product of his power. Some even made him laugh on occasion. Regardless, he always smiled. Grace in adversity was an article of faith for him.

His target was a fir tree a short way beyond the adults' campfire. The challenge, of course, was getting close enough to reach the branch without accidentally impaling himself on it. On top of that, he needed to keep silent, so he didn't alert them to his spying.

Using his clever limbs, he slunk down the trunk like a squirrel until he found an ideal vantage point that kept him hidden while affording him a decent view. Then he wrapped his tail around one of the sturdy branches, and hung upside down to listen.

Magneto's hand traced along the inside of his left forearm while he thought. His thumb rubbed absently at the identification tattoo he'd received from the SS guard at Auschwitz, rubbing against the cloth of his shirt until he could feel the mark left in his skin through the heavy cloth. Then, with no expression, he lifted his hand to the back of his neck to trace the scar left by Stryker's injection. He'd been branded twice in his life. As a boy, there was no way to fight back that wouldn't end in death. As a man, he thought there was no way he'd allow such a thing to happen again.

 _Vanity_ , he mused, remembering the ancient Roman injunction to their Caesars:  _All is Vanity._

"I told him," he forced himself to admit, dragging the words out from the depth of his soul.

He locked eyes with Storm, before turning his cold gaze to Jean, not bothering to hide both the rage and shame that roiled just beneath the skin, hidden behind his mask of calm. Neither female flinched, earning his reluctant regard. "I helped design the system, remember? I helped Charles build it.

"Stryker has undeniable methods of . . . persuasion. Effective against me. Effective against a mutant as strong as Charles. Believe this, if Stryker has Charles, he will break him. And suborn him to his purpose. If he weren't absolutely certain of that fact, he wouldn't have acted."

"Why the hell is this Stryker?" Jean demanded.

"He is a military scientist with considerable ties to the clandestine intelligence community. He spent his professional life looking for a solution to what he considers the mutant problem. But if you require a more intimate perspective, why don't you as the Wolverine?"

Logan stiffened. While he'd been known by his handlers as Weapon X, the guards had a different name for him. Wolverine. It wasn't so much a memory as a bubble of half recalled voices bursting just below the level of conscious thought.

_Look et Wolverine take after that bear! Bet he could eat a snake no prob . . ._

_Is the Wolverine ready for another battle?_

_Lock down Wolverine._

_I can't believe you guys call him that . . ._

"His name is Logan," Jean said, coming too quickly and sharply to his defense, causing Magneto to fmile thinly as he turned his attention back and forth between them.

"Of course it is," he said. "But what's in a name?"

"Are you sure you don't remember—Logan?" In return, he got a bland look. "Mores the pity."

"The professor—"

"Expected you to find the strength to tame your wild side and merge. He gives you more credit than I do." Logan's eyes flashed, and he couldn't help wondering how the elder male knew so much about what happened in the mansion. A low growl tickled the back of his throat, so low the people around him couldn't hear, but he offered no other reaction to Magneto's barb.

"Please understand," Storm said from her place beside the fire, "if we don't take this all purely on good faith. You went to some trouble to save us for which we're all appropriately grateful. The question we need answered is, why? What do you want, Magneto? Why do you need us?"

"Mystique discovered plans of a base where Stryker's moved his operation. Unfortunately," he struggled, "we don't know the location."

"However, I suspect one of you might."

"I can't connect reliably with-" Logan began,

Magneto gave him a scathing glare. "Once again, you think it's all about you."

Then his eyes rose to the darkness above them.

Nightcrawler's first instinct was to vanish, but he took strength from the smile of greeting Storm offered, and the wave of invitation that followed to join her. He dropped, twisting in the air like the circus acrobat he'd once been as he swung from branch to branch, ending with a triple summersault that landed him directly on the spot she'd indicated. He held the pose for a second out of habit, before remembering where he was. A blush burned beneath his dark skin as he crouched down next to her.

Her hand across his shoulders was a reassuring weight.

"I didn't mean to snoop," he apologized.

Storm's hand squeezed in soft comfort as Jean said "relax."

She stood with a grace that was nearly a match to Mystique before taking position in front of him.

Her voice rang out again, both out loud, and in his mind, "relax." He heard more than the simple word, however. Her telepathy enfolded him in a fluffy psychic blanket that left him warm, and snuggly and safe in ways he couldn't ever recall feeling. She'd given him a window into her own soul to reassure him that these sensations were true, and she meant him no harm; that she genuinely liked and cared for him. In turn, she found a soul that weathered the tempests of life with remarkable success.

Her lips formed a gentle O of surprise. Strangely, Nightcrawler was something she'd never encountered before, a purely physical mutation that manifested at birth. Every other mutant she'd met had their powers manifest during puberty. Before that, they're lives had been wonderfully normal.

Not so with Kurt. He'd never had the chance to hide. That's why he'd taken refuge in the circus, even though he'd spent his earliest days there as a child in the freak show. Soon, his natural talent and the exuberance of childhood manifested in the ability to climb faster than anyone he knew. His tail provided opportunities to perform that left the others gaping in astonishment. He was more at home in the air than on the ground, and he found himself as one of the main attractions.

In spite of the unparalleled skill, the tumultuous cheers for every audience he'd ever performed for, he was never invited to join the world-class circuses. A scout from Ringling Brothers came once, admitted he'd never seen anything like the Nightcrawler, and invited him to the States for an audition. The bosses reacted with the same sentiment as their scout: Nightcrawler was unique. Unfortunately, that was the problem. No one at their level had willingly hired a mutant and no one wanted the risk of a backlash. Better he should remain a regional show.

Kurt didn't mind. He preferred the smaller audiences and the freedom to shape his own shows. It gave him a more intimate relationship with the crowd. In the bright lights of the big cities, where the big shows toured, he wouldn't be able to continue his quest for meaning, for enlightenment. While he found a measure of comfort on the trapeze, there were no answers there. Questions haunted him since he was old enough to gasp how different he was from everyone else, and he longed to know: Who am I? What am I?  _Why_  am I? What kind of God would create a creature such as me? What is my purpose in the world?

When she stared, Jean expected to find a person tormented by his appearance. In stark contrast, she embraced on of the most gentle, secure, and stable beings she'd ever encountered, who was at peace with himself – even if he still sought how he fit into the greater scheme of things.

He trusted her without reservation. In the face of his innate nobility, she was humbled. It was a faith she would cherish, and it made her determined to keep him safe as she sank into the vaults of his memories.

It was like looking into a broken mirror, images scattered and fragmented: flashes for all directions, strobing without number as every camera in the circus tried to take his picture. He was accustomed to it.

The scout and his bosses gave him a ticket home, but he decided to stay for a time and visit a country he'd only seen in movies.

He found the abandoned church in Boston and chose to make it his home. Most of his sightseeing was accomplished at night. He hand't thought of the danger, after all, who would want a circus aerialist?

Ambush. Forms swarmed over him from every direction, men in uniform. They hit him in the face with a blast of pepper spray, then mace, destroying his concentration so he couldn't teleport, covering his mouth so he couldn't shout . . .

The sharp bite of a hypo . . .

Darkness . . .

There was a vague recollection of flying high above the ground, wind in his face, and the deep whup, whup, whup, noise he vaguely thought might be the blades of a helicopter . . .

There were trees, and a wall of gray concrete that filled his vision to the horizon on either side and up to the top of the sky, which vanished as he was rolled on a gurney into a long tunnel, plunging deep into the earth.

A maddening itch on the back of his neck, where he wore a sedative patch to keep him tractable. No energy, a room, a man with a syringe . . .

Soldiers held him down, and fire burned at the base of his skull. He wanted to scream, to beg, to curse, to die, but he'd forgotten how. He was empty, and only the man's voice could give him life again . . .

He remembered the White House, the Oval Office, the gunshot, running, teleporting until his strength gave out.

His church, his sanctuary . . .

And then Storm and Jean found him . . .

She gently severed contact, cradling his upturned face in both her palms and wishing she could borrow some of his power and tranquility for herself. Her lips brushed his in a kiss of thanks.

"Stryker's at Alkali Lake," she informed the others without breaking her eye contact with Kurt.

Logan stiffened, ghostly screams whispered in the back of his mind, and he could feel the phantom itch of skin covering his flesh. "That facility is abandoned."

"Was," Jean corrected him.

For the next hour they talked. Magneto led the debriefing as he mined Jean's memory for every scrap of usable data before his cool gaze turned to Logan. He was a skilled interrogator, examining the smallest nuance of dialogue or gesture into a means for extracting more data that the subject was aware they were giving up. Watching him, Jean began to understand how Charles Xavier and he became friends. She saw what he might have been if he hadn't embraced the inner demons bred during his childhood. He was an inspiring leader, as well as an intuitive teacher. He could recognize her nascent insights and for a moment between them, there were no barriers.

The most tragic part was, she knew he knew it too. All that could, and should, have been. And all that still might be. Knew it, and rejected it. Charles Xavier was energized by the potential humanity held in its hands, his life and purpose was defined by hope. Magneto emphatically rejected hope. His heart had been torn apart too many times to permit the vile weed of hope to take root yet again. Long ago, his spirit had been pared down to its barest essence, brought to white heat in the most awful of crucibles and pounded by adversity into the unyielding shape of a weapon. The hard metal of his being was folded a thousand thousand times, as the classical sword smiths of ancient Japan forged their samurai blades. Thanks to that brutal tempering, he could bed without breaking, but regardless of what happened, he would never lose his edge. He would never be anything less than what he was. He was the living embodiment of the primal forces that formed the base of the universe. As a consequence, he was just as terrible as he was glorious.

Jean couldn't bear to be near him for another second. The bleak hollow at the core of his soul was whirlpool; if she wandered to close, she'd be dragged down into oblivion.

She broke back from the campfire and took refuge in the  _Blackbird,_ Returning to the purely mechanical tasks that had filled the afternoon and evening.


	34. Where It All Began

**Chapter 34 – Where It All Began**

* * *

_"You don't always need a plan. Sometimes you just need to breathe, trust, let go, and see what happens." - The Joker_

* * *

**Hogwarts**

* * *

Fingering the Spell-O-Tape wrapped around the center of his wand, Ron scowled. It wasn't like the awful thing fit him to begin with being Charlie's old wand and all, but then George had to trip him when he was getting off the train at the start of term and down he went. It didn't help that his mom always badgered him about keeping his wand in his pocket.

The wand snapped when he fell, and not even his desperate owls to his mother fixed the situation. Her response? A roll of Spell-O-Tape attached to a Howler. Sullen anger burned in his chest and made his cheeks pink when he remembered the humiliation of her screeching for the whole school to hear that if he wasn't so clumsy and actually paid attention to where he put his feet, it never would have happened. As if anyone could be careful enough around the twins to avoid their traps.

More often than not, the youngest Weasley male thought the twins were changelings, switched out at birth by some devious creature, leaving Halflings in their place. Except for the fact that at a glance they were pure Weasley through and through. "Glamours, that's what it is. Maybe they look _too_ much like us to be real," he muttered under his breath while ignoring the latest idiot who was supposed to be their Defense Against the Dark Art's teacher. _At least this one can say a whole sentence without becoming a stuttering wreck._ That was true, unfortunately, Lockhart's greatest talent had nothing to do with magic. Instead, it was an uncanny ability to turn any topic under the sun back to himself. At the rate they were going, they weren't going to learn a single spell this term, but they'd all know every one of the three hundred and forty two flavors of tea the man loved, and just how much work went into preserving that perfect smile.

"Mr. Weasley!"

Ron jumped, dropped his wand, and felt his ears burn as the other kids started laughing at him.

"Break it again Weasel, maybe that'll strengthen it out," Draco laughed, increasing Ron's fury ten-fold. If he had his way he'd shove the broken wand so far up-

"Detention, Mr. Weasley," the blond ponce snapped, making Ron's head whip around to gape at the man.

Shoving his wand back into his pocket, Ron turned his glare on the man. "What? That's not fair," he shouted.

"Maybe next time you'll pay attention when someone addresses you, hm? Now, please inform the class what spell I used to cure the Wagga Wagga Werewolf."

"Er…"

"That's what I thought, 7 PM sharp, young man." The blue eyes glittered at him like a pair of demented robin's eggs, and Ron felt the almost irresistible urge to slam his fist into the bastard's face just to see if it would shatter.

* * *

Gideroy ran his fingers through his golden tresses a final time while he waited for the boy to arrive. When he'd taken the job, he thought he'd be able to hold back, to keep control of himself. But it had been months, and watching all the children day in and day out, well…it wasn't like he'd hurt the boy. Even if he did, it wasn't like young Ronald would remember. He licked his lips. Redheads were always his favorite.

With only three minutes to spare, his door cracked open, and the lanky twelve-year-old walked in with an adorable scowl on his face. Gideroy couldn't wait to see his cheeks painted red with passion and those sweet lips parted in a moan as he taught the boy a few new lessons.

"Come here," Gideroy purred, making Ron's steps falter. His own blue gaze studied the teacher. Something about the tone, the look in the man's eyes, set him on edge. It was the sort of look the twins gave him whenever they were planning a particularly nasty prank and needed a victim to test it out on.

But what could he do? It wasn't like he could run away from a teacher. Swallowing, he took a hesitant step forward, and forced himself to continue even when the man gave him a wolfish smile.

With a speed that would set Snape back on his heels, Lockhart drew his wand and cried, "Immobulus!"

Ron barely registered the drawn wand before he was frozen. _What in Merlin's name?_ His thoughts tumbled over each other trying to make sense of the attack. Lockhart was a professor, not the twins or a sneaky Slytherin.

Gideroy savored the look of panic flashing in the boy's wide blue eyes. Such a beautiful color, rich and deep, like sinking into the ocean and reaching the point where the light fades to near darkness. Grinning, he stalked around his prize, his wand hissing over the frozen form. "I shouldn't be doing this, so unprofessional I know, but I never could say no a pretty pair of eyes. Relax, you'll enjoy this as much as I will," he whispered before his tongue darted out to stroke the outer edge of Ron's ear.

A tiny meep escaped Ron when understanding crashed over him. _This can't be happening!_ As the pervert circled him again, long slender hands started to tug at his clothes even as the tip of his wand wandered over bits of exposed skin.

Ron's heart beat frantically against his ribs, so fast and hard it hurt. He focused, using the fear and fury to his advantage. With an almost audible _pop_ the binding spell gave way, thank Merlin the bastard chose immobulus since it was the Twins favorite spell to catch him with so they could use him as a test subject without him wiggling around. Escaping the spell was the only bit of accidental magic he'd managed to master into wandless.

With a shout that wavered between a roar and a squeak tore from his throat, Ron's hand darted out to grab the teacher's wand.

"Hey!" Lockhart jerked, causing the wand between them to snap like a wishbone. "Why you little shit. I was going to go easy on you, make you enjoy it, but now I think I'll take you rough."

Terror spiked in Ron at the words, and he yanked his own wand out of his pocket. Faster than a mongoose snapping a cobra's neck, Lockhart snatched the wand out of his hand. By instinct more than design, the curse he shouted next was the one that he'd perfected in his youth, in this very school to hide his…nocturnal delights from partners who never remembered their little games afterward.

"OBLIVIATE!" He roared.

As if the shouted word was a detonator, the wand exploded in his hand. Ron flung his arms over his head and leapt back.

The man who'd been attacking him a second ago blinked at the boy from the ground where the blast had knocked him flat. "Oh, hello. Who are you?"

* * *

Nightcrawler knew, perhaps more than anyone else, what it felt like to be stared at. Yet, he found he couldn't keep his eyes away from Mystique. His tail twitched, and he finally worked up the nerve to approach the shapeshifter.

"They say you can imitate anybody," he paused, his eyes tracing her blue face with the strange yellow eyes that were as close a shade to his as he'd ever seen. "Even their voice?"

Her lips curved into a teasing smile as she replied in a perfect imitation of him, "Even their voice?"

A grin of delight curled Nightcrawler's lips, and his tail gave a happy flick as he clapped his hands together in appreciation from one performer to another.

The smile faded into seriousness as she gave him a long look. "The voice isn't a challenge. Now the tail might take a little work."

"Would it be like mine," he wrinkled his nose, trying to find the English word, "what is it, like-"

"Prehensile," Logan offered as he wandered over to listen.

"Ja, ja, ja! Yes, like a monkey."

"It's not polite to ask a woman her secrets, _mein herr_ ," she teased, "Or expect her to give them up for the sake of satisfying your curiosity."

"Forgive me," Nightcrawler whispered, recognizing the flare of emotion flickering in her eyes but not knowing exactly what it represented. "I did not mean to cause offence."

Now she gave a delicate snort. "Not even close."

Silence lapsed between them, but he shifted from foot to foot like a small boy who desperately wanted to speak but wasn't sure his thoughts would be welcome.

Mystique huffed, but couldn't quite keep the smile from her face at the sight. "Yes?"

"I vas vondering, with such an ability, why not stay in disguise all the time? You know…look like…everyone else?" Under the simple words, Mystique read the heartbreaking truth, what he meant to ask was, "like _normal_ people."

"Because we shouldn't have to."

* * *

Sleep proved elusive, and Logan found himself staring up at the roof of the tent as if it had offended him. Glaring would be more accurate. His thoughts turned back to the mansion, to Zen. At the time, in the midst of the action, he'd been certain the short man would be fine. Of everyone he had to worry about in the school, Zen was at the bottom of the list when it came to guarding his own back. Even though he couldn't remember, he still _knew_ Zen could handle himself.

That feeling was slowly eroding with every hour that passed. Where was he? Logan didn't doubt the assassin could find them if he wanted to, so why hadn't he?

Worse, what was he doing if he wasn't looking for them? He could envision Zen tracking down and killing every person who'd stepped foot on his domain, or worse, trying to take out a whole army of the assholes and getting himself killed.

A growl that sounded suspiciously light a laugh whispered up from the cage in his mind. "Right, laugh it up fur ball. I know you think he's the cat's meow or whatever, but even he can be outflanked."

That silenced the noise, drawing his attention to the faint odor of Folavril, Jean's perfume. A dark grin curled his lips, after all, he knew the best way to rile up X. The zipper hissed open, and she crouched inside. He watched the fast throb of her pulse on her throat, and could almost taste the flush of her skin on his tongue as blood filled her skin in a pretty blush.

His lips parted to speak, but her smooth finger ghosted against his lips, stopping the words before they could form. A low rumble rolled in the back of his mind like caged thunder, and he almost laughed out loud.

Jean's green, feline eyes glittered with anticipation as she crawled closer. Even though this was half a game to torment his other half, he found he couldn't help follow the smooth line of her shirt, unbuttoned more than she usually wore it. Without a word, she straddled his hips. Her scent twined around him like a long furred cat, and he took a long draw of it, rolling it along his senses like another man might savor the first sip of wine.

Her hands slid over his chest before tracing the rugged line of his throat to cradle his face between her palms. Then her lips captured his, and Logan groaned when pain spiked in his temples as X roared his fury and tore at the cage holding him back.

Logan forced his hands to remain gentle as caressed the smooth skin of her belly, moving up and up over the gentle curve of her ribs until they rested between the swell of her breasts. A single fingertip traced the scar divot he knew he would find, even though he didn't hold actual memory.

She trembled against him, her breath rushing out in a sharp gasp at his touch.

That was the moment he chose to strike, letting his claws tear free. The two outer claws extended to bracket her throat, forcing her to keep her head high and tight to keep from being sliced open. The middle claw tickled just below her pointy chin as a silent warning to behave. One misstep, and she'd lose her head.

When he knew he had her attention, he tore open the front of her shirt, revealing the scar IX left behind when he'd nearly killed her on Liberty Island.

"Busted," Mystique said, sounding entirely unapologetic. If anything, her grin was more alive than before as her eyes glittered down at him like a feral dog's. She danced on the knife edge of danger to add a layer of spice to life that couldn't be found any other way.

As he watched, her green eyes melted into chrome yellow, a color that expanded to encompass the entire eye. Then, like a flower taped and played in fast forward, the transformation spread outwards from her eyes. Without a sound, her hair shortened and darkened to a brilliant red as her clothes sank into her skin, which darkened to deepest blue.

She gently but firmly pushed his claws away from her neck with barely a millimeter to spare; the edges never touched her skin.

Then, with a purr that was almost primal, she melted against him and kissed her way up his neck. Her teeth sank into the lob of his ear in a hard, sexy love bite. Before he could push her off, she straightened. "What do you want?" She asked, her voice a sultry caress.

Again she shifted, this time her skin darkened to sun kissed mahogany. Her hair silvered into strands of moonlight as her eyes shifted to blue. She gained height and majesty until Storm straddled him, naked and glorious, yet still he remained unmoved by her beauty.

Lush lips shifted into a pout and something sly flared in her sky blue eyes. Again they shifted, this time darkening to jade as the body shrank, grew lean, no longer the soft curves of a woman, but the hard lines of Zen.

"Or is this-" Zen's quiet monotone was interrupted by a low snarl. Before she could react he flipped them, and when their eyes met again, Mystique realized she'd bitten off more than she could chew as animal instinct fill his eyes, stealing control. A low growl vibrated through him, making her breath catch in her throat. Then white, sharp teeth flashed in something too predatory to be called a grin as his body tensed.

"Shit," she hissed, trying to shove him off, but the angle was wrong, his greater weight pinned her as easily as a lion pins a baby gazelle moments before delivering the fatal bite. "Don't you dare."

His hands gripped her arms with crushing force as his head darted forward in a move nothing human could mimic. A single hair's breadth away from her frightened jugular, X froze. Lips peeled back and a snarl like ripping silk tore from his gaped jaws, but no matter how he fought, his body refused to obey.

"For shame. Is this how you repay your debts?" Magneto's amused voice made the hair along the back of X's neck rise. "Then again, I'm hardly think a beast like you can comprehend such things."

With a twitch of his fingertips, he lifted the feral three feet into the air, earning another savage growl. "The X-Men should train their pets better," he mused as he flicked his finger, shaking him roughly.

Mystique's lips quirked in an amused smile as she squirmed out from under the hanging male whose baleful eyes promised revenge if either one of them dropped their guard in the future. "Since we can't afford to let you go rampaging about at this juncture, be a good dog and return to your kennel."

X's only response was to violently twist in the air, trying to break the old mutant's grip on his skeleton. He would have had a better chance of breaking out of a solid block of cement. The mild amusement on Magneto's face shifted to irritation and his fingers flared wide, pulling at X's limbs, stretching him wide. "How hard do you suppose I'd have to pull before one pops right off? I wonder if it would grow back."

Snarls of rage mutated into a volley of curses. "God damned mother fucking bitch cunt whore!" Logan shouted as his joints screamed in protest. From the second that bitch took Zen's form, he knew they were in trouble. He hadn't had a prayer of keeping X locked up after that, even though he knew the feral knew she wasn't really Zen. No matter how well-crafted the clone, it couldn't stand up to his scrutiny. While the shape and voice were perfect, she hadn't been able to nail Zen's unique scent.

A disappointed sigh brought Logan's wrathful thoughts back to the man holding him captive. "I see there's little difference between you and your alternate, Logan. You're both uncouth."

"I wasn't the one sneaking into someone else's tent pretending to be someone else," Logan growled, the sound holding an echo of X, letting them all know how shaky his control was.

Magneto flashed a look at Mystique, who only gave a mocking bow in return. Arching an eyebrow, he fought a smile. "I won't save you again, my dear, if you insist on poking the tiger."

This time she stuck her tongue out at him before slinking out of the tent. Without another word, Magneto dropped Logan, and made his own retreat.

Closing his eyes, Logan let his fists clench shut but kept his claws sheathed as he fought against X's instinctual urge to follow in a futile attempt to establish dominance. It didn't help that the man was old, and smelled it, giving off the signal of weakness to his inner monster. _Things aren't always what they seem,_ he growled in his mind, and imagined an old rattlesnake whose poison was still deadly. It didn't have as much of an affect as he wanted since they both knew he could take a full shot of snake venom to the face and hardly feel it. But still, he'd made his point. The old man was a hell of a lot deadlier than any snake.

* * *

The bitter tang of old blood saturated the air like morning fog. It coated her tongue and clung to the back of her throat like a leech, making her want to gag. Instead of choking on the horrible taste, her body stood passive, waiting.

Always waiting, even as the scream began to build in the back of her mind. _NOT REAL!_

It didn't help. It never did. Instead, she waited, her frantic eyes tracing over the endless field of spilled blood. It seemed to go on as far as she could see, stretching from horizon to horizon. How many deaths, how much blood did it take to fill up such a vast space? How many times had she died here? _Not me, not mine, his…IT'S HIS._

Horror spiked in her mind, though it wasn't reflected in the flesh now trapping her to this nightmare realm. Something shifted beneath the ground, as if the blood itself had come alive. Slowly, so slowly she wanted to scream or claw her eyes out, the shadowy shapes formed around her. Eight.

"Learn what they have to teach you. Kill...or be killed." The hated voice boomed all around her, and like a switch being flipped, her slender form sprang into motion.

What was worse? The feel of her own bones shattering, or the horrible sensation of other people's bodies breaking under her skilled hand?

And then came the unexpected blow from behind, knocking her to her knees, an arm closing around her slender throat and squeezing. _No, no, no, please, no more!_

Darkness ate the world, bones ground together, fractured, pain flared as all sense started to leave her.

Jean woke with a gasp, her hands jerked up to cradle her neck, trying to reassure herself that she was still whole. Swallowing, she forced her hands to drop back down. Just a dream.

The night seemed to fold around her like heavy drapes, making her long for sunrise, no matter what the next day brought. Instead of thinking about the future, or Scott, or the little bastard who haunted her nightmares, Jean's own ghosts decided to make an appearance.

Her mind turned back the clock, and in her head she heard her friend Annie Malcom's voice. "Benny! Come on boy, catch it." Everything about that day felt imprinted in her mind. The way the hot pink Frisbee flew, caught by a stray breeze and flung over the wooden fence. How the small mixed dog darted through the open gate and Annie, sweet foolish Annie, chasing after Benny, heedless of the danger.

Jean saw what Annie failed to, a car speeding around the sharp curve in the road. The car never slowed, he never even applied the brakes before or after. All she heard was the sickening _thud_ and the rough screech of tires skidding on asphalt as the driver fought to maintain control before speeding away.

Not wanting to, but unable to turn away from the memory while still fighting the after effects of the nightmare, Jean's mind continued playing it out. She found Annie slumped against the stone wall, her body crumpled, twisted at impossible angles, and the blood, so much more than such a small body should be able to hold, was splashed everywhere. Jean choked on a scream. She wanted to howl like a wounded animal at the sight, but the part of her that refused to give up control bit down on her bottom lip until she could form words. She forced air into her lungs and shouted for her mother.

Annie's small chest was the only thing that moved, desperately trying to draw breath, to continue living even though she'd been damaged irrevocably. The only other thing that seemed alive about her were her wide, bright eyes, shining with confusion as her battered brain tried to understand what happened. Jean couldn't hold back the flood of tears. They splashed silently down her pale cheeks as she knelt and pulled Annie into her arms.

She found herself in a vast space filled with light. All around her glittered sparkling clusters of energy. Reaching out, she touched the closest and caught a flash of a specific time and place, together with a flood of associated emotions, and in a burst of insight, she realized each of the clusters represented one of Annie's memories. With the quick agility of a child's mind, she concluded at once that she was inside Annie's mind.

But the delight she felt for the new adventure died when she noticed the brilliant clusters were starting to fade, along with the background radiance which infused the endless space around her. It was like looking at a summer sky chock full of stars of every imaginable color and size fighting against the sharp fingers of nightfall.

Pain and horror filled Jean when she saw one of the clusters closest to the darkness explode apart in a show of sparks, like fireworks, before the embers vanished. Unlike a sunset, where night encroached from a single horizon, the darkness of death seemed to come from every direction. Desperate, she reached out and tried to catch hold of the memory clusters, trying to carry them to safety. Only no place within the dying brain was safe. As more and more clusters vanished, Jean could sense less of her friend remaining.

"Annie!" she screamed into the darkening landscape, but the word only echoed in a place where it had no more meaning. Annie was going, and nothing Jean did would stop it.

Instead, she embraced the few clusters she'd managed to grab, her own heart burning with grief so intense she thought it would explode like one of Annie's memories. If only she could push her own strength, the essence of her will and soul into the last fleeting scrap of her friend, maybe she'd be able to save her.

Then the last of the light went out. All around her, save the last piece of Annie she still cradled to her chest, had gone dark.

But paradoxically, as the final night fell, the cluster Jean embraced burned more brightly than before until it was like holding onto a captive sun. She saw colors there were no names for that reached out to all her senses. They manifested themselves as textures, tastes, and scents. The light filled her, embraced her, was pure in a way poets strove for and only lovers found, and then only rarely.

The final cluster, the very last piece of what used to be her best friend, broke apart in Jean's grasp and slipped through her fingers before rushing away. It was so beautiful and peaceful Jean's first instinct was to follow after her friend so that she wouldn't have to face the new place alone.

It would be so easy to let herself slip away. No more pain, no more fear. She would be able to avoid the soul crushing grief waiting to pounce the second she opened her eyes for real as she was confronted with the broken doll who'd once been her best friend.

A shout broke her concentration. It was so raw with horror Jean was shocked to realize she wasn't just hearing the words as her mother cradle-crushed Jean into her own arms the way she'd done with Annie, as headless as her daughter had been of the blood soaking them both. She could feel the torrential emotions rocking her mother's psyche along with an influx of thoughts – relief that it was Annie and not Jean, shame at the acknowledgment, fury that the girls had been so careless, and a terrible flood of rage at the driver who hadn't stopped after he hit Annie.

 _It's okay, Mommy,_ she remembered saying. It had taken her years to realize she hadn't said the words out loud, which is why she'd been shocked when her mother fell back in shock. _There's no need to cry. I'm okay._

Much later, she understood that what she'd told her mother had been a lie. Nothing would ever be okay again after that fateful moment when her mutation catalyzed years before it was supposed to.

Tears, an echo of the ones that had burned her face those long years ago, whispered down her cheeks unnoticed. Why had that memory surfaced now? Then a trembling smile touched her lips. "Thank you, Annie," she whispered.

No matter how convincing IX's memories were, they weren't real. She knew the taste of death, and how it felt, and his false deaths were just that: fake.

* * *

William Stryker took no chances now that victory was so close he could feel it rushing through him like an undercurrent of lava in his veins. Reviewing the security procedures from the control room, he ensured the electronic sensors were up and running, video surveillance active and tracking, sentries in place, and fast-reaction units armed and ready to strike should anything attempt to approach the facility. A mosquito wouldn't be able to land on the fence without him knowing about it.

While he was unable to utilize AWACS here the way he could over Westchester, he had adequate ground radar capability in place to lock down the air space over a hundred miles in diameter, backed up by a Doppler imaging system that could detect the heat signatures of any jet engine, no matter how advanced, as well as the ripples such a craft would cause in the air currents. He was confident nothing would be capable of approaching without his knowledge, even so advanced a stealth airframe as Xavier could boast.

Behind him, the door shushed open, but he didn't turn to acknowledge the man. He didn't need to. As Lyman and his escort entered the room, a shadow stepped away from the wall and placed herself between them and Stryker.

Yuriko Oyana stood poised on the balls of her feet, her hands up in a waiting pose, prepared to strike at the least provocation.

"Sir," Lyman said, not quite able to keep the edge of nerves from underlining the word. Stryker bit back a smile at the tremolo in the man's voice. It amused him how Yuriko could have that effect on a man when she was prepared to fight. They didn't know what to make of the woman, except that she was undeniably dangerous.

Stryker observed the men in the blank squares of inactive display screens mounted on the wall in front of him. Instead of replying at once, he paused while Wilkins, the duty officer, finished off the checklist. When he did respond, his tone was curtly dismissive.

"The men can wait outside, Mr. Lyman."

"Yes, sir," Lyman replied before dismissing his guards with a nod. They took up posts outside the door. At an unseen cue from Stryker, Yuriko stepped back, her lithe frame once more docile and unthreatening.

Lyman cleared his throat. "Sir, the machine has been constructed to your specifications."

"Good."

"If I could ask, Sir, why are we keeping the children?"

With a flick of his finger, Stryker activated the monitor showing the children huddled together in the middle of a single holding cell. They were clearly unhappy to be there, and by contrast, Stryker radiated cold joy at the sight. Though it dimmed a little as he stared at the group of pajama clad creatures masquerading as children. Looking at them, something unpleasant jangled along his nerves like the first flash of distant lighting heralding a coming storm. He suppressed a shudder of loathing as he turned away from the screen, turning his back on the test subjects to face Lyman.

"I'm a scientist, Mr. Lyman. When I build a machine, I want to know it's working."

Lyman blinked at him, confusion flaring in his dark eyes.

Stryker gave a sharp edged smile. "Consider the children a control group. They'll be our living benchmarks. What happens to them will indicate what's happening outside. If needed, we can adapt settings and protocols according to their reactions ensuring greater efficiency and potency."

"But sir, they're just children," Lyman sputtered in a reflex more of surprise than actual protest. When Stryker's eyes locked on his like a vice, he regretted speaking out of turn.

"They're mutants, Mr. Lyman. Never forget that. This is war."

* * *

While Stryker was explaining his plans for the children, the aircraft he'd been so worried over was sitting within a few miles of where he stood, tucked away in a patch of snowy woodland. Yes, he'd modified the systems to compensate for the _Blackbird's_ unbelievable stealth capability, however he hadn't taken into account Magneto's ability to deflect radar pulses before they made contact with the jet. He also failed to recognize Storm's power and how she could smooth the air behind them and mask the heat of the jet's exhaust.

Guessing at the level of security around the hidden base, they'd come in low and slow, stretching the science behind nap-of-the-Earth flying to the breaking point. The jet's underbelly tickled the tops of trees, and in some areas even dipped below the tree line to fly between branches whenever possible. Helicopter pilots would have balked at some of the stunts they pulled. During the approach, Jean kept her teeth gritted in a mix of determination and delight since they were breaking so many fundamental flight safety procedures that she'd been forced to take the flight manual to keep the computers from having a conniption. As she flew, she tossed her telepathy ahead of them, ensuring they didn't run head first into a stray sentry.

After they'd safely landed, they reapplied the stealth netting to hide them from visual and electronic detection. On board the jet, they shut down all but the most vital internal systems to keep stray emissions low. While the terrain itself acted as a cloak against unwanted observation there was no reason to take chances.

Once they finished securing their position, they returned to the jet and uploaded the stolen data from Stryker's office, creating a three-dimensional map of the installation before projecting it as a hologram for them to study.

The dam itself was not a thing of aesthetic beauty, unlike the grandeur of Grand Coulee, or Glen Canyon, or Hoover. No, this construction was simply a massive wall across the valley in the shape of a shallow L. there were two spillways along the long face of the dam, and a third coming off the short leg. There were also two massive concrete trenches dug along each bank, one dedicated to the hydroelectric generators that provided power to the base; and the second for safety, allowing for a controlled release of water should there be significant snowmelt.

The X-Men tapped into the government's technology, slipping into one of the same keyhole surveillance satellites that had spied on the mansion to download current pictures of Alkali Lake. The digital images showed the power trench was clear, but the depth of undisturbed snow revealed it wasn't the path the new inhabitants were using to enter the base.

At a glance, the entire base held the haunting air of abandonment, and any casual recon of the site would move on, assuming it remained inactive.

"Surface scans are cold," Storm informed them. "No electronic emission, power, or heat signatures. As far as the satellite is concerned, this place is dead, and has been so for years."

"We're shielding," Jean pointed out.

Storm gave a shrug in response, tapped out a few more commands, and the scene transformed, revealing a different perspective of the base.

"The first image was merely a topographic representation of the area. This one-" she pointed out a number of different points on the map-" shows the density changes in the terrain. Lighter coloration, the heavier the repetitive activity." To the casual observer, the right-hand spillway, the power trench, was covered with virgin snow. However, under the enhanced imagery of the spy satellite, a new picture revealed itself. The trench was lined with hundreds of colored lines, running the length of the spillway and up the ramp to the single road that terminated at Alkali base. They didn't need to waste time looking at the legend to understand that this was an abnormal amount of heavy activity, not just in terms of raw numbers of vehicles but their weight as well.

"Busy little bees," Jean muttered under her breath.

"It's fresh," Storm added.

Again, Storm switched perspectives to focus on the spillway. Below the dam, the trench glowed various shades of blue, while the rest of the landscape was a pearly white.

"The legend shows the depth of ice and snow covering the ground," she informed them. "It looks like there's been recent water activity."

Jean nibbled her lower lip as she studied the image. "If we go in there, Stryker could flood the spillway."

Glancing at Nightcrawler, Storm asked, "Kurt, would you be able to teleport inside?"

He shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I have to be able to see where I'm going or I could end up inside a vall."

Logan studied the map, trying to ignore the low amused growl echoing inside my head. The bastard knew something. Damn it. Closing his eyes, he ignored the conversation, letting it flow around him as he poked his thoughts at the caged monster. _What?_

An image drifted up, floating into his mind like a balloon released from a careless toddler's hand. It was a door. Not just any door.

A hidden door.

Logan hissed under his breath, trying to pull more information out of the feral, but only getting that low almost laugh like growl again.

"Logan?" Jean asked, her eyes flashing in concern. They'd never considered what bringing him back here might do to his psyche. Was X trying to break loose?

Giving a low huff of exasperation, Logan looked up and had to fight not to glare at the woman. She had that look on her face that said she was just waiting for him to go all primal on them and ruin everything. How he hated that look. He shoved the disgruntled thoughts away. "There might be another way in."

"Oh?" That amused sound made his hackles rise, and he glared at Magneto.

"Yes."

"What's the catch?" Magneto asked.

Now Logan's shoulders hunched a little. "I don't know where it is. Just that it's in the woods."

Jean scoffed. "What use is that?"

"I see," Magneto said, his gaze sharpening on the duel personality man. "X knows, doesn't he?"

"Yes."

Again Jean's eyes flashed with worry. Letting X out was akin to releasing a hungry tiger in the middle of a preschool. Not an idea any sane person entertained. "I think the spillway-" she began, only to be interrupted by Magneto.

"The idea has merit, and I'm sure I could provide an adequate leash for the beast. What I'd like to know is its motive in leading the way."

Logan snorted, "hell if I know, Bub, his reasons are his own."

"You aren't honestly thinking of using him, are you?" Jean demanded. Why did she always end up the only voice of reason in a sea of madness? Ever since IX and X came into their lives, it had been a never ending series of horrible decisions.

"Jean," Storm soothed. "If Logan-"

"Not Logan." Jean snapped, wanting them all to be aware of that fact if they planned to go through with this. "It won't be Logan who takes us in, and who knows where X will lead us. For all we know, he'll deliver us right into Stryker's hands."

"I doubt that," Logan said.

"Why?"

"Because X hates Stryker."

"What?" Storm asked, startled by the information.

Locking eyes with Jean, almost daring her to look deeper, he answered. "Stryker isn't a nice man, and he's a worse boss. Failure wasn't tolerated, and those who failed were punished."

Jean swallowed, shame and pain trying to choke her as Scott flashed through her mind. They had Scott, the professor, and who knew how many of the children. What if they were being harmed right now while they fought about how to get into the base? "He…hurt you?"

"Not me."

"Not…oh." Jean didn't want to feel pity for the small assassin. She refused to. "Fine. We'll let X lead us, but if he acts out in any way, Magneto will put him back in line." She locked eyes with the older man, silently demanding his compliance.

"Very well," Magneto said, still smiling that faint, amused smile.

* * *

In the hours since their frightened awakening, the children lapsed into abject boredom. No one entered the holding cell, and there was nothing to divert their attention from the utter lack of stimulation. Even the terror wore off after the first hour or two.

Now they sat huddled together in the middle of the cell, trying to preserve their warmth and starting to feel the effects of captivity.

Zen sat a little apart from the main group, turned so his face would be mostly hidden from the cameras as he contemplated the situation. Anyone else would have felt the rat like gnawing of panic, but he simply continued to run through different scenarios, seeking the one that would allow him to free the students without any of them dying in the process.

Another loud huff of exasperation exploded out of Pietro, and like all the others, Zen ignored him. Not even bothering to glare at the speed mutant in an effort to cow him back into silence.

"Well?" Pietro demanded as he shifted his weight to his other buttocks in a vain attempt to ease the growing numbness. It didn't help, all it did was make his lower back complain. They'd all learned the hard way not to lay down. The cement floor sucked the heat out of them, making them tremble like a basket full of soaked puppies left out in the rain. Instead, they tried to keep as little of themselves in direct contact with the floor as possible.

Zen let his eyes slide open to stare at the gray haired teen. "Well what?"

Sneering, Pietro flipped the assassin off. "What do you think, genius, how the hell are you going to get us out of here? That was your grand plan, right? So what are we waiting for? Can't you just, I don't know, disappear us or whatever?"

"I can only shadow walk with two people at a time, anymore and it becomes dangerous for the passengers," Zen admitted, remembering the Doctor's experiments and the girl whose lower body hadn't made the jump. She'd lived for only a few minutes before bleeding out. He'd attempted to shadow walk with four people. One of the others lost a foot. The other two were fine, if violently ill from the sensation, or the sight of their screaming companions, he didn't know.

"So? Take us two at a time. There are eight of us. It would only be four trips," Artie piped up from his spot huddled between two girls who had their arms wrapped around his thin shoulders to share warmth.

Zen's dark eyes shifted to the child, making him meep and huddle deeper into their hold. "The guards would know the instant I saved the first two and kill or incapacitate the rest of you. They would kill me the moment I returned."

"Oh," he squeaked, closing his eyes tight as if that would make the whole terrible situation disappear. Zen turned his attention back to Pietro, dismissing the frightened boy.

Pietro's glare intensified, "fine, so maybe that wasn't the best idea, but at least it was an idea. It's not like you've given us anything more than 'we wait'."

"I am not going to propose an idea that will end in the death of a single student. There is no value in talking through ideas that will end in failure," Zen replied, his voice as coldly bland as the cement they crouched on.

"Jeez, could you possibly be more of a downer?" Pietro snapped, wanting to jump up and throttle the monotoned bastard.

Studying the speed mutant, Zen gave a single nod. "You know better than the rest what awaits them if they aren't killed outright. If you wish, I could inform them of their fate if we don't make it out or if I'm recognized before I can act."

Wide frightened eyes shot between him and Pietro as the kids were torn between wanting to know and desperately wanting to believe they'd be rescued before anything bad happened. "Don't you dare," Pietro growled, sounding almost as savage as X. "We're all getting out of here, you understand? We aren't going to be their lab rats, and if I have to save us myself, I will."

Zen didn't point out the statistical likelihood of failure to his roommate, or the odds of any of them surviving, which was borderline zero. Instead he returned to analyzing all options.

"Um, guys? I really have to go to the bathroom." Sandy whispered, her plump cheeks burning a dark scarlet as she bowed her head to hide her face behind a fall of straight brown hair.

* * *

Logan could almost taste X's satisfaction. The emotion flavored the air of their mental landscape, a noxious cloud of dark pleasure. He gritted his teeth. "Get ready old man," he growled, locking eyes with Magneto. It was only as he slotted the mental key into the locks of the cage that he wondered if X's motive was revenge.

 _Oh well, they'll survive or they won't._ It was no skin off his nose either way. The sound of the locks disengaging echoed through his mind, and Logan expected the monster to explode outward in a storm of claws and teeth like any other wild beast.

Instead, the door slid open and X glided past him without inflicting pain. Logan's breath caught as their minds flowed past one another, rubbing sides like two great and deadly creatures gliding past one another in the darkest depths of the ocean. It felt…good. Surprisingly good as X nudged him out of control instead of fighting him of for it. To his internal disgust and confusion, it felt natural. Right.

Still, he didn't remain in the depths. Logan spiraled up after his counterpart and settled in the back of X's mind, looming behind him like a dark shadow, ready to lash out of the feral tried to attack anyone who wasn't an enemy.

Magneto's eyes remained locked on Logan's. He watched the human personality fall back, replaced by X's more feral mind. It was like he'd stumbled across a tiger in the woods while taking a hike. The animal stared at him with dark eyes as the body it inhabited shifted with it. Not into a beast, but all the muscles gained a tension they'd lacked a moment before. That coiled waiting all predatory creatures had that told the onlooker even if they're at rest, they'll still be ready to leap up and tear your head off at the least provocation.

Without meaning to, his power coiled around X, touching lightly on the metal, prepared to freeze him in place or rip him apart if needed.

"Let us help," John demanded as he stood up, the X-Men's attention shifted to the teen, but Magneto kept his power and eyes on X. Behind John, Bobby and Rogue nodded in agreement.

Storm halted the idea like a snow storm snuffing out a camp fire. "You're not helping with anything."

John opened his mouth to protest, but Storm held up her hand. "If something happens to us, and we're unable to make it back, activate the escape-and-evade flight sequence programmed into the autopilot, just the way we've shown you. Don't touch any of the controls, on the ground or in the air. The _Blackbird_ will get you home safely."

"Then what?" Bobby demanded, unable to hide his thoughts. As if any of them had a home to go to. Or a school for that matter!

Mystique gave him a vulpine smile. "You have superpowers, don't you? Figure it out children."

With that, all their attention returned to X. "Lead the way," Magneto said, in the same tone he'd use to cast off a hunting falcon. X lifted his upper lip in a silent snarl, but didn't attack. With a last hard glance at Magneto, he turned and stalked down the off ramp of the jet.

Once free of the jet, X closed his eyes and took a long deep breath of the fresh mountain air, savoring the mix of scents that flooded his mind. It felt good to be back here, all that was missing was IX. _Take us to the entrance_ , Logan growled in the back of his mind. Turning, he headed deeper into the woods, away from the facility.

"We'd better be headed the right way," Jean grumbled under her breath as they trotted after the maniac like a pack of idiotic puppies. Against her will, she saw the scene in Alice in Wonderland where the clam children follow blindly after the walrus and carpenter, happily trotting along to their own deaths. The only thing standing between them and mutilation was an old man with impressive power but aged reflexes. It would only take a second's inattention for X to take advantage, and then their blood would feed the forest like so many others before them.

The hair along Storm's arms rose as goose flesh prickled along her skin. A few miles from here was the burned out remains of a town they now knew Zen had destroyed, and the facility where X helped butcher countless people. It was abandoned when they'd scouted it all those months ago, but now it was active again, and she couldn't help think it an ill omen. Land could become poisoned, and if ever there was land that should be sown with salt and forsaken, this place was it.

Before long, the tree line began breaking up, revealing a solid dark stone cliff face. X stepped forward and slammed his claws into a smooth piece of the rock. Instead of the grind of stone breaking, electricity spat from the damaged wall. A portion of the stone slid open, gaping like a mouth leading down into pitch blackness.

X stepped silently into the tunnel, the one he'd been led through countless times as he was brought out into the forest for the outdoor hunting tests. He took a deep breath, before giving a feral bearing of teeth that made a mockery of smiling. There were no new human scents in the tunnel, meaning the new prey hadn't found this little escape hatch.

A beam of light cut through the gloom like a laser beam, and the rest followed him into the night encrusted bowels of the secret facility.

"Wait."

Magneto paused, and gave X's metallic skeleton a slight tug of warning to bring him to heel before he glanced back at Jean. "Not having cold feet, I hope?"

She glared back at him, as if she'd let Scott or the Professor down now that they were so close. "No, but I highly doubt they're going to give us the guided tour. The minute they see us in the security cameras, they'll be on us."

"How do you plan on getting us around that?" Mystique asked.

Closing her eyes, Jean bit the inside of her cheek as she felt the nail-like spike of the psy inhibiters built into the facility attempt to thwart her. The pain built as she forced past them, forcing her mind to reach out for the one she sought. There! She locked onto the mind seated in front of a bank of monitors. _Everything is fine, you won't see anything unusual. Everything is fine, normal, boring. Everything is fine._ Blood filled her mouth as her teeth sank into the tender flesh while she drove the mental compulsion into the mind, forcing it in like a thought splinter before pulling away.

Once she was certain it stuck, she pulled back into the safety of her own mind. "Are you all right," Storm asked, her hand rubbed along the other woman's back in silent support.

"Yeah, fine. We can go now. As long as we avoid being seen by anyone, we won't have to worry about the cameras," she said, her voice a little breathy from the pain. Psy inhibitors like the ones the facility employed could be breached, but for the psychic, it felt like forcing their way through a razor wire fence.

X's low growl brought their attention back to task. "I don't suppose you know your way to the control room?" Magneto inquired. Glancing back, X made a low chuffing sound before he turned to take point again. It felt unnatural to avoid detection instead of cutting a blood soaked swath between him and his goal, but his enhanced senses allowed him to guide the rest without alerting a soul to the infiltration.

* * *

The morning broke open around them like a precious gift as the sun crested the horizon while the helicopter cut a smooth path through the thin fog ghosting over the hills of Hudson Valley. Anyone watching would assume the aircraft was nothing more than a corporate helo, taking care of one of the countless moguls or upper echelon elites who called this stretch of Westchester County home.

Their flight was pleasantly uneventful as they made their way from Alkali Lake to the coast, but as they approached their destination, it was difficult for Charles Xavier to keep his impatience at bay. A niggling sense of dread played along the edges of his distracted thoughts.

A mental flex caused the pilot to make a combat approach to the clipped back lawn. In seconds, they'd popped over the surrounding trees and came down in a neat landing.

As eager to make sure the children and Jean were safe as Xavier, Scott shifted Xavier from his seat into his wheelchair. While Scott pushed him up the ramp to the terrace, Xavier allowed the pilot to shut down the engine and issued a silent order to force the man to sleep.

During all of this, Xavier's thoughts continued pinging around the school, seeking the bright lights of his students. No matter how far he casted his thoughts, there wasn't a response. He should have caught some hint of them, of Jean at least. But all was silent.

Now that they'd reached the mansion, the disturbing absence of contact ate at his nerves.

"I don't like this," Scott said as they passed through the foyer. He'd called out as loud as he could, but all they heard were the fading echoes of their voices bouncing around the empty halls and rooms. "Where are they?"

"See if you can locate the _Blackbird,_ Scott," Xavier said. "Try to use the transponder to raise the onboard computer. Locate Jean and Storm. I'll use Cerebro."

Nodding, Scott headed down the corridor. Xavier turned his chair towards the elevators, never thinking twice about Scott breaking both protocol and common sense by leaving him alone in a possibly hostile environment. And since he was studiously ignoring the growing dread in his chest, he failed to turn his head and see Scott vanish behind him into nothingness.

Underground mirrored the corridors and empty rooms above, making him believe everyone had fled until his ears caught the muffled sound of sobbing. Closing his eyes to focus better, Xavier slowly pivoted at the man junction, where a pair of halls came together in front of the elevator to form one of the many ubiquitous X's that could be found throughout the underground complex.

"Come out, please. Everything is fine now," he called. A frown of confusion touched his lips as his mind sought her but couldn't quite pinpoint her location. "You can come out now."

After several minutes of searching, he found her tucked in a corner of the computer room. Another frown brushed his lips as he studied the girl. She was young, not the youngest he'd ever dealt with, but still younger than the average mutant by several years. Straight blond hair fell into her pale face. She used the hair as a curtain, looking at him through the fragile strands with wide eyes brimming with tears.

"Are they gone?" she whimpered, and Xavier knew she meant Stryker's soldiers. It hadn't struck him as odd that what should have been a violent invasion of his school left no visible mark on the building. That wasn't important. All that mattered now was the girl, and finding his lost pupils.

"Yes, where are all the others?"

She gave a small shrug.

"Well, I guess we'll have to find them, won't we?" He offered her a smile and held out his hand. Her smaller one slipped into his and together they moved down the hallway towards the vault like door that was the entrance to Cerebro.

* * *

Like a pack of dangerous ducklings, they followed behind X while he led them through back passage ways. They stopped when he stopped, allowing patrols to pass before entering a new hall. In less than fifteen minutes he'd brought them to the main control room. Without a word he opened the door and drove his claws into the guard who'd turned to see who it was. The guard dropped, dead before he recognized the threat.

At the computer terminal, a tech sat silently, face forward, utterly oblivious to the invading force as they piled into the room and shut the door behind them. Magneto turned the chair, and studied the blank faced man. "Impressive."

The word, the _praise,_ made Jean shudder in revulsion as she looked at what she'd done. A second ago, she was about to lecture X about killing, yet now she had to face her own dirty work. There was a slight smile on the man's face, and he continued staring through them. In his mind, everything was normal, fine, boring. The only thing Jean didn't know was how long it would last. An hour? A few minutes? Forever? Had she turned the poor man into a vegetable by accident?

While she silently freaked out, Mystique grabbed the man and tossed him bodily out of the chair before taking his place. Her elegant blue fingertips danced over the keyboard.

"Have you found it?" Magneto asked.

With a few more key strokes, she brought up the power grid on the main display. "The hydroelectric net is still functional and has been reestablished by Stryker, with a large portion being diverted to this chamber. It's newly constructed," she said, pointing out one of the sectors of the complex, one of the only areas where there was no video feed to be found.

Magneto sighed, "Yes that would be my fault. Can you shut it down from here?"

"No," Mystique replied.

X ignored the group huddled around the computer screens. Instead, his attention was caught by the guard he killed. Kneeling, he took a deep breath, scenting the man. Faint, almost gone, lingered the heady aroma of lightning. His lips pealed back in a silent snarl. Standing, he headed for the door. IX was here, and anyone who stood in his way would die.

The feeling of adamantium retreating drew Magneto's attention, but he kept silent on the matter. Let the feral be a distraction for Stryker and his men, it couldn't hurt, and it kept him from having to worry that the brute would turn on them at an inopportune moment.

"Come," Magneto said to Mystique. "There's little time."

Before Mystique could stand, Jean blocked their path to the door. "You're not going without us." Turning, Mystique brought up another screen, showing the huddled children.

"Dear God," Storm gasped. "The children! Kurt?" Without needing her to elaborate, Kurt nodded his agreement.

"Will you be all right?" Storm asked Jean, who was engaging in a glaring match with Mystique. Jean knew what they were doing. It was obvious to her that Magneto had a plan of his own, and Mystique deliberately used the children to split the X-Men up and limit their ability to interfere.

"Yeah, I'll be fine." Her green gaze slid around the compartment. "Where is X?" She demanded, calling herself seven kinds of fool for loosing track of a potential enemy. Then she pinned Magneto in her stare. "You were supposed to be watching him."

"I was aware of his departure."

"Why did you let him leave?" she snapped, trying her best not to shout at the man.

Again he lifted that one single eyebrow. "I'm not his keeper. He fulfilled his part of the mission. What he does now is of no concern to me."

"And what if he goes back to his real masters!" This time, she couldn't help it, she shouted.

"Are you trying to bring the guards down on our heads?" Mystique hissed, wanting to knock the woman out and be done with it. A subtle head shake from Magneto stayed her hand.

"What's done is done, we have to save the children and the Professor," Storm cut in before the fight could progress to blows.

* * *

Xavier came to a halt in front of the retinal scanner. Once it confirmed his identity, a feminine voice said, "Welcome, Professor." With a swish, the door cycled open, revealing the impressive spherical chamber beyond. He gave the girl a warm smile, and she smiled back, but when he turned to enter, her panicked voice halted him.

" _Please don't leave me!"_

Her cry lashed through him like a dagger. How could he be so thoughtless, so uncaring? What sort of teacher was he to abandon a child after all the trauma she'd endured when he wasn't here to protect her?

"Don't leave me," she begged. "Please!"

"All right," he soothed, projecting calm and reassurance. "You can come inside."

A radiant smile broke over her young face, making Xavier's aching heart lift as she followed along behind him. He never glanced back. Never saw the polished floors of his beloved home melt into cracked concrete. Never saw the horrible nightmarish shape of Mutant 143 keeping pace with the girl image he'd projected into Xavier's mind or the pair of armed guards standing with guns ready at the doorway.

Xavier believed himself free, but in truth, he'd never left Alkali Lake. He was still a prisoner, and for Jason Stryker, he was the best toy he'd ever had the chance to play with. A mind of superb grace, infinite possibilities. When he was finished, it would be a wasteland.

This was going to be so much fun.


	35. FUBAR

**Chapter 35 – FUBAR**

* * *

_"Hello darkness my old friend. I've come to talk with you again." – Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel_

* * *

All thoughts of hiding his presence died with the scent of Zen. X didn't try to skulk and dodge detection. Instead he went with his first instinct. Bullets carved hot paths through his flesh, but the wounds healed faster than the soldiers could pull their triggers. Dark satisfaction filled him as their faces morphed to terror when he kept coming on, tearing through them like a demon who'd escaped the deepest pits of hell.

Sweet copper scent filled his nose, mingling with the sharp under tang of perforated bowels. The scream of alarms warbled up and down the corridors, filling X with a fierce joy. Let them come. Let them all come. He would dance in their entrails as he cleaned out the infestation of humanity that had once again taken root here.

* * *

Stryker didn't waste time questioning how the breach occurred or who was to blame. That would come later, once his task was complete.

Reaching Xavier's location, he finished giving his orders to the stationed strike teams to find the intruders and eliminate them.

The hallway in front of the mock Cerebro was crowded with Lyman's fire team. They'd be the final level of defense if the infiltrates made it this far. Not that he expected them to, then again, he hadn't believed anyone could approach the base without his knowledge, let alone get inside without. No, he wasn't going to take any more chances.

He looked the men over with an approving eye. The reinforced squad contained over a dozen men, all carrying automatic and heavy weaponry. With their weapons and positioning, they'd be able to hold off ten times their number or more.

"Mr. Lyman, position your men," Stryker ordered. Leaving Lyman to the task, trusting him to do it properly, Stryker entered the chamber. He stalked along the gantry extension to the circular platform, a hastily constructed replica of the one they'd found in the mansion.

The contraption wasn't a thing of beauty, but looks weren't important. What mattered was that the stolen components all functioned in the same manner they did in the real Cerebro chamber. Xavier was positioned in front of the console. Behind him and slightly to the left, 143 waited. It brought a hint of a smile to the older man's face. The most powerful mutant mind on the planet was aware of nothing beyond what Stryker permitted. Charles Xavier, relegated to the status of a trained monkey. Stryker almost laughed.

He bent down to his son's ear and whispered his instructions.

Xavier turned his head slightly, thinking he heard something, but the low persistent buzzing in his mind muffled the sound. Why wouldn't it go away? The distraction faded when the girl reached out and touched his arm. She stood on her toes and whispered in his ear.

"Is it time to find our friends?"

Xavier's heart fluttered in his chest with excitement. Finally the emptiness inside of him filled with purpose. He'd never felt such joy, it was rhapsodic.

"Yes," he crooned back, meaning it with every fiber of his being.

Stryker whispered to his son . . .

. . . and mutant 143, via the image of a little girl . . .

. . . whispered to Xavier.

"All the mutants? Everywhere?"

"Oh, _yes._ " Xavier breathed. The path opened up before him, promising fulfillment, and yet . . .

Always, and yet. No matter how he tried to embrace this stunning moment, something kept tugging him back, worrying at him like a puppy with a slipper. It couldn't be ignored or denied.

Thankfully, the childish piping voice was stronger.

"Good," she said.

"Good," Stryker whispered to himself. He reached out to grip 143's shoulder, came so close that he could feel the heat of the mutant's flesh lick at his palm before pulling his hand back. He curled his fingers into a clenched fist. For a second, he'd almost forgotten 143 was nothing more than a tool, a weapon in the battle to save humanity. Instead, he'd seen him as his son. That was unusual for him. It was a sign of weakness. It wouldn't do, he couldn't afford to let his clear thinking be clouded with foolish emotions.

With crisp military bearing, Stryker turned on his heel and marched out of the chamber. He refused to look back. After this, he'd never have to look at mutant 143 again. The only image of his son he'd keep would be from Before. Back when a mahogany-haired boy with soft cheeks and an easy giggle begged his daddy for horsy rides and who Stryker loved more than life itself.

The world that was, the world that would have been if Xavier and those like him hadn't existed. A world he would make real for everyone else, all the other fathers out there who would have healthy, human children, and not monsters.

If Jason was aware of his father's thoughts, he didn't appear to care. What intrigued him was his new toy, and his strange, mismatched eyes widened in delight as he began to play.

Xavier offered a smile to the girl as he finished the last of his preparations.

"Don't move," he warned, keeping his tone gentle so as not to frighten her. Xavier slid the helmet into place and shifted a little so he sat more comfortably in his chair.

All around them, the thrown together walls fell away, and Xavier's mind expanded outwards, filling the chamber. He jumped, terror spiking though the fog in his mind because next to him wasn't a little girl at all, but the mutilated horror Stryker made of his son.

The jolting fear washed away as he looked again. No, that wasn't right. It was the girl. Strange how he hadn't noticed her eyes before now. One shined a pale husky blue, while the other flared poison green, a shade that reminded him distantly of Zen.

A holographic representation of the globe sprang up, filling the empty space of the chamber with its soft brilliance. They floated in the heart of the world.

Taking a steadying breath, Xavier's conscious fragmented, creating countless versions of himself that raced through earth, water, stone, concrete, steel, molten rock, stretching to all points of the globe where mutants could be found. Not just the active manifestations, or the ones on the cusp of coming into their power, he targeted the latents as well. Every person who possessed the mutator parings in their genome, even if it was only the potential and wouldn't manifest themselves but who might bear offspring who would, were captured by him. He'd never thought there would be so many.

He found one lounging in a New Orleans bar, shuffling cards – _Remy, I should let him know Zen is well_ , the thought was there and gone in an instant, buried under endless impressions. Another drifted through a Scottish field, picking heather for a decoration at Moira MacTagger's dinner table. A stunningly beautiful woman serving as a lifeguard on Bondi Beach; an ancient aborigine perched in the highest branches of a tree. A young boy with feathers and a quintet of white-blond psychics who were exact replicas of each other yet entirely unrelated. He found mutants with strength, others with skills, those who could fly or run faster than a cheetah, and still others who lived in the depths of the oceans. One young lady could flatten herself thinner than a sheet of paper and another who could become any substance in the periodic table by tearing off her skin. He found mutants who were born to be predators like X, and others who were prey, and a vast array of those who had yet to come to that crossroad.

Xavier observed a world poised on the brink of war, balanced between what was and what might be, and he knew in a brilliant flash of understanding that he held the reins of change. It was his responsibility to shape this change, to determine whether the future was one of bright and unparalleled possibilities or one where the planet drowned in a sea of blood.

Every mutant stood apart as a scarlet drop of light against the darkness of forever, yet, beside them flared countless white lights, the lights of those who were not mutant. They flared with equal light and must be cherished equally. The lights banded together, forming a single whole, both sides bound together, the children of Mother, and Xavier found in this moment poised between action and inaction, what he'd always known in his heart, what he'd always attempted to show Erik Lenhsherr, you could not safeguard one without protecting the other.

With a thought, Cerebro came fully on-line, making itself known in the low thrum of power that gradually increased in intensity.

Hearing the hum, Stryker smiled. He stood next to Lyman. "Guard this post, Mr. Lyman. That's an order."

"Yes, sir."

"From here on out, kill anyone who approaches. Even if it's me."

"Yes, sir."

"God bless you, men. God give us this day!"

Stryker returned Lyman's salute with the same crispness he would have used if they were on the parade ground at West Point before doing an about-face and striding away with Yuriko at his side.

After watching his superior walk away, Lyman turned to his men to review their positions and ammo loads. He had no doubt that the upcoming battle would be a bear fight, but he also knew that he and his men were trained to handle it. They were ready, no matter what came at them, and they would prevail.

* * *

"Hold up," Jean said, holding up a hand to stop them. They'd ventured deep into the twisted corridors of the complex and were in a portion carved out of the rock beneath the dam. Taking a breath of the dank air, Jean closed her eyes and focused. "I feel something," she confessed before her eyes sprang open in a relieved grin. "It's Scott," she shouted, unable to contain her excitement.

Her joy was met with fire, a beam of scarlet energy erupted out of the darkness and gouged a chunk out of the wall between Jean and the other two with enough force to fling shrapnel like stone at them. As Jean dove out of the beam's path, she threw a telekinetic cloak over them to deflect the stone.

"My dear," Jean heard Magneto call out, "this is the sort of lover's quarrel we can ill afford."

"Go!" She shouted back, "I'll take care of him." Fear settled in her gut as she caught sight of Scott's face. His blank, empty face made her heart spasm in horror. It was an eerie echo of IX face when he'd first come to them, before the Professor ordered him to play human. _Oh, God, no. Please don't do this to him, let him be okay._ She didn't know if she could stand it if they'd destroyed his mind, turning him into the same sort of weapon as IX.

No expression marred his features as she shouted his name. He gave no reaction to her voice. When she reached for him with her thoughts, fighting through the cutting agony of the psy dampeners, all she found was an empty void whose only awareness was an icy oblivion whose source radiated out from a spot at the base of his skull. Relief almost made her dizzy. She didn't need to see the scar to know what happened to him, and since both Kurt and Magneto recovered, Scott would too.

Another beam of light shot towards her, reminding her that until the drug wore off, or she managed to break him free of it, he'd be as implacable and relentless as IX ever was.

As one, Magneto and Mystique backed away. The movement caused Cyclops to fire a third time. Jean was ready for it, deflecting the optic blast to her left, letting it carve a shallow path out of the far wall. While she did that, she made a hand gesture, needing the physical action to help direct her telekinesis outwards to slam into his chest. The blow threw him off his feet.

Her focus narrowed as she ran forward, shoving him as she went. His speed accelerated with her own, and Jean had to grit her teeth as he fought with single minded strength against her hold. It appeared that the chemical cocktail Stryker used on his victims allowed them to utilize all their previous knowledge and skill to fight. When she'd first started training her abilities for combat, Scott practiced with her. Together they'd learned the best ways for her to use her gifts, while at the same time he learned how to defeat them. Now he used that knowledge against her.

The hall they were in ended in a stone wall. Phantom pain flared along her nerves as she slammed him into it as hard as she dared. Unfortunately, he was wearing his uniform, and it absorbed most of the impact.

Without uttering a word, he fired at her again. Jean ducked, and the blast hit a Humvee parked in an alcove behind her. The force lifted the four-ton vehicle up and slammed it into the one parked next to it. Rattled by the loud crunch of shattering glass and folding metal, Jean lost her grip on him. Scott flipped over the balcony railing, falling down into the darkness below.

Jean bit back a curse ran forward. Grabbing onto the railing, she stared down into the unrelieved darkness. The space below her was entirely enclosed in shadows, hiding the room's dimensions from her. Digging her nails into the metal, she started to contact the others, to let them know she'd lost Scott only to realize she'd lost her com unit in the tussle. Her mind already felt like it was bleeding in half a dozen places, and she knew she wasn't strong enough to try and force her thoughts through the psy barrier again so soon. At least, not when she had no idea where her targets were.

Stepping back from the railing, Jean knelt to reduce her size, making her less of a target while she thought out her options. If she focused, she could still sense Scott's corrupted thoughts, but only enough to know he was unhurt and mobile. Not enough for her to get a lock on him. As if that wasn't bad enough, now that she was so focused, she could hear the deep grumble of gears and motors below. No doubt that would complicate the hunt when she went down after him.

"Oh, Scott," she whispered, fighting back the sting of tears. He was the strategist, the combat leader, not her. Training wasn't enough, especially when she avoided combat training as much as possible. Her heart wasn't in fighting, it was in healing. Now she regretted all the times she shirked. She swallowed hard. Every time they'd sparred, loser buys lunch, she ended up forking out the cash. Every single time.

Stealing herself, Jean stood. It wasn't like she had much of a choice.

* * *

The static filled silence ate at the kids. Anger bubbled just beneath the surface at being left behind, at the lack of information, and the certain knowledge that one of Stryker's goons would find them any second and fill their little escape craft full of holes before they could do a single thing to retaliate.

John decided he'd had enough. "That's it," he snapped, pressing the switch to extend the ramp.

"Where are you going?" Bobby challenged.

John couldn't help but roll his eyes. "Where do ya think, idiot? I'm sick of this little kid table bullshit."

Bobby jumped up. "You'll freeze before you make it to the spillway."

"I doubt it."

"But John, they told us to stay here," Rouge said.

For a long second, the two boys glared, ready to use each other as a distraction against their fear and boredom. Rogue wondered if Bobby would use his ice to stop their class mate, and how hard John might fight back. In her heart, she knew which of the two boys was more ruthless.

"John!" Rogue begged as she took a measured step forward, placing herself between the two.

The moment broke like splintering ice. John threw Bobby a look of dark warning, but what he offered Rouge was a boyish grin, like the ones the old Johnny used to give, complete with a teasing wink.

Then, before either of them could react, he was gone. John trotted across the ice swept landscape as if he were strolling through a park on a hot summer day, utterly ignoring the blistering cold. Rogue eased past Bobby to the controls, but made no move to raise the ramp. Part of her knew how John felt, and longed to follow where he lead.

* * *

Jean took the stairs at a run. When she made it to the floor, she dove in a roll that took her into the cover of the endlessly spinning generators. While she knew Scott was waiting for her, she had no clue where he'd concealed himself. But it didn't matter, she knew what he'd do, and of course he did.

As she regained her balance and rose to a crouch, he fired. The optic blast came at her from the right. Usually, by the time a target saw Cyclops's unique red light, they were already hit by it. Jean had an advantage others lacked. While his weapon was the speed of light, her parry was the speed of thought. Concept and execution occurred simultaneously, allowing her to erect a telekinetic shield an instant before she would have been struck.

Her body jolted as the beam crashed into her shield, making her clench her eyes shut to focus all her strength on holding him back. It didn't work out the way she hoped. While the shield held, her feet began a slow backward slide. With each foot she was pushed back, Cyclops advanced, as unstoppable as an automaton. He adjusted the visor, narrowing the beam down to maximize its intensity.

Where the two powers clashed, energy sparked and began to glow, blazing hot and glaring bright enough Jean could see it through her closed eye lids.

Jean screamed at him, not out of fear, but in defiance, shouting his name again and again as she tried to break through the drugs to reach him.

"Scott!" she roared, "Remember who you are. Please, remember who _I_ am. Stop this!"

His power began eating through her shield, eroding the bonded energy that kept her safe. Jean knew she could beat him, all she had to do was split her focus enough to throw her teke at him, using it to burrow into the vulnerable places of his body. As a doctor, she knew all the places to strike that would inflict the most damage – both to incapacitate or eliminate a target. There were so many areas to choose from; she could block his airway, one of the valves of his heart, or even interrupt the smooth flow of neural transmissions along his central nervous system.

But his first attack had been too strong for her to split her focus without losing control of the shield. She might have been able to take him when he rushed her after she came out of the roll. Fear kept her from acting then. She'd hesitated, afraid her lack of control would do more damage than intended. Trying out such maneuvers in the relative safety of the danger room, where the subject was hooked up to multiple different monitors and people were on standby to revive them if things went wrong was one thing. Performing the dangerous attack here against Scott? Unacceptable.

It didn't matter anyway. Scott continued upping the power level faster than she'd believed possible. Jean was forced to use every scrap of her teke to keep him from breaking her. What could she do?

She couldn't kill him.

She refused to be defeated by him.

The desperate conflicting urges warred inside her until something woke in her mind. A bright string of celestial music that had always danced at the outer reaches of her awareness from the moment her powers came into being, shifted from a distant whisper to a roaring symphony, a crescendo that rolled through her like a tsunami. At first, she thought she'd be swept away, but with a pureness of joy she'd never known existed, Jean rode the crest of the unbelievable wave, surfing creation in the same way she'd always dreamed of cutting through the ocean.

All around her, the air twisted and rippled, like fabric in a high wind before it began glowing. The roseate cornea grew around her before it flowed down her outstretched hand, following the path her teke forged until it slammed into the blazing needle of energy that made up Cyclops's optic blast.

Bearing her teeth, Jean straightened to her full height as raw emotion made her face a haunting mask of contrast against Scott's blank features.

Around her, the blazing light shifted as the battle continued, creating the suggestion of fire instead of mere light and a hint of wings flaring outward from her back, not those of an angel, but the flare of a predatory bird, a raptor rising from the nest to attack an enemy.

As the energy between them grew in intensity, the fabric of reality began to twist and buck, unable to contain it. Cyclops's power was immense, but was ultimately a thing of reality. It came with limits. Jean's power was limited only by her imagination and will.

Focusing all her will on defeating him, she took a step forward, pushing both with thought and power. Her heart gave a silent shout of jubilation when the brilliant red light was pushed back towards him.

Her triumph didn't last long. They weren't the only factors with limits in the battle. Reality itself could only take so much before something gave. In a fight that played on levels from the paranucular to the subatomic, Jean's strength surged to unbearable levels, and the energy being used increased exponentially until the heat and pressure the combined forces created triggered an equal and opposite reaction.

In a literal sense, they created a molecular protostar, a localized version of the Big Bang.

For the smallest fragment of time, they tasted the power of creation. Thankfully for all the residents of the known universe, the fabric of reality – weakened immeasurably by their fight – split wide open under the unbearable strain, allowing the energy to vent into a random, and wholly unfortunate plane of existence.

Unaware of the cataclysmic near miss, the two combatants were only aware of the surging radiance that made the sun's glow dim to that of a firefly before an explosion more impressive than one of Storm's better efforts sent them both flying.

Scott was thrown, backside over top, the full length of the massive room. Jean's flight path wasn't as clear, and she crashed into one of the bulky machines. Agony speared up her leg as the bone crumpled under the brutal force of her landing.

They weren't the only ones affected by the blast. Energy radiated out from its source, shaking the entire foundation of the dam. The generator room bucked like a ship in the midst of a killer storm, causing the machines to rattle and moan as they were put under strain never considered by their creators. Dust wafted like snow down from almost every ceiling, and a resounding _bong_ sounded from somewhere deeper in the complex as a segment of iron railing pulled free.

A crack skittered up one wall, allowing water to leak through.

* * *

The ground came alive under Stryker's feet, shaking itself like and irritable donkey trying to rid itself of an unwanted rider. He would have gone flying if it wasn't for Yuriko's strong grip. After the shaking settled, he stood and dusted himself off while muttering darkly under his breath.

Water dripped onto the top of his head, freezing him mid word. Tilting his head back, Stryker saw the network of cracks in the ceiling. Fear skittered down his spine at the sight, and he stomped down the halls until he came to one of the dam's monitoring stations. All it took was a single glance at the numbers to know the dam was doomed.

Long ago, before Jason, before marriage, before his promotion, he'd been a field agent. Black ops. One of the areas he'd been trained in was sabotage. Dams had been covered in the course material. There were two primary methods for taking out a dam. Drop a very large bomb on it in the right place, like the British did to the Germans in World War II – or set off a far smaller explosion in just the right place, and let the integral pressures of the dam destroy itself. What it all came down to was the dam's structural integrity since the water it held back was unrelenting.

The explosion created a chain reaction, creating hairline cracks that wouldn't remain so for long. No matter what else happened, the complex was doomed. Stryker's only concern was how long before the whole structure came down on their collective heads. Focusing, he performed several calculations and had to give it up. There were too many unknowns.

Stryker made a conscious choice, the dam would last as long as he needed to complete his task. He'd worked too hard, sacrificed too much, to see it undone now. His cause was just, ergo he would prevail.

"Let's go," Stryker said, leading Yuriko swiftly away from their current position.

* * *

The sharp, robotic clank of his footsteps drew Jean out of her agony induced stupor. A low keen broke from her throat, not due to the pain, but because from his footfalls alone, Jean knew Scott wasn't free. He was coming to kill her, and she couldn't stop him.

Trying to sit up, she fell back as another wave of unrelenting pain seared up her shattered leg. Jean couldn't dredge up enough energy to try and muffle the pain or stop Scott. _Screw that!_ Martialing what was left of her flagging strength, she dampened the pain in her leg, dulling it down to a low angry mutter before calling out to Scott. She didn't bother using her voice, instead she flung open her mind in a final desperate bid to reach him.

 _SCOTT!_ It was a single word, yet so much more. Every touch, all the emotion they'd built together, unfolded from her mind to his. She shared with him the world and how it felt when they were separated, and then contrasted it with how it was like to be together. The difference flavored the space between them like the difference between a wasteland and paradise. He was comfort, passion, need, joy. Together they were stronger, they forged a bond without parallel, and were two kindred souls married into one, a whole that far outshined either of them separately.

Her soul spilled open, and she only held back that dark sliver of her that even now thought only of Logan, and realized as she did so that this piece of her would be the blade she called on if she was forced to do the unthinkable and kill him.

As he reached for his visor, she was overtaken with a ridiculous memory of watching one of Scott's favorite movies, Robert Wise's classic _The Day the Earth Stood Still._ She recalled the instant when Patricia Neal was trapped, faced with the robot Gort and how his visor glowed the same way Scott's did as it opened to reveal the deadly beams within.

_Scott!_

His hand paused, then began to tremble as his lips twisted. Jean watched the smooth easy breaths quicken as his hands clenched into fists, and in his mind she saw light flash through the dampening fog as he fought against it. Distantly, his own mental voice called back to her.

Then, like a wire pulled too taut to bear the strain, the shout exploded out of his chest, roaring free in a desperate, incoherent sound a man might howl as he clawed his way free of a shattered pit that culminated in an awful scream of agony that made her pain pale beside it.

Scott crumpled to his knees and sobbed, each breath ripping out of him in rasping gulps like a man who'd finally broken the surface of the ocean when he'd thought himself lost.

When she reached out to touch him, he jerked away, curling in on himself like a beaten dog. Anger sizzled along her nerves, not at him, but for him because he was her man and he wasn't the beaten creature huddled before her.

Reaching forward again, she lightly stroked the side of his face while her thoughts sank into him, enveloping him in warmth, strength, love. She gave to him the reflection of himself as she saw him, the man she knew he was, who made her complete. _It'll be all right, Scott,_ she soothed in his mind as she spoke aloud, "It's okay, it's me. It's _me!"_

The tortured look on his face faced slowly into a thing of relief, and she drew him to her as she buried her face into the hollow of his neck. Her own relief filled her with a giddiness she'd never found in alcohol.

"You're hurt," he murmured.

"Indeed," she said. "Here, help me up."

Scott snorted, a little of his old personality shining through. "I don't think so, I'll carry you."

"Like hell you will, I'm a telekinetic, remember? I'll make myself a splint and crutches all in one."

"Yeah?"

"Love, you'll be the first to know if I'm wrong."

"Jean," he began before hesitating. "Look, I'm-I'm so sorry." His voice broke on the words as she reached up and brushed a loving kiss along the side of his jaw.

"It's okay. I thought I lost you," now her voice was the one choked with tears as she remembered the horrifying sensation of being unable to shake him from the fog.

"Thanks," he whispered, but she felt the enormity of emotion hidden in the word and hugged him harder.

Before they could both break down into well-deserved hysterics, Jean's face changed as she glanced around the room. "Something's wrong."

* * *

Bodies littered the hall behind X, irritating the mutant even more since the stink of blood mixed with the cordite odor left behind from their fruitless attempts to shoot him masked the faint trail he'd been following.

_Idiot! Stop casting about like a blood hound and think. Where would prisoners be kept? Are there cells?_

Bearing his teeth at the voice in his head, X turned and stalked through an open doorway. Logan surged forward, shock and disorientation forcing him back into control as the vast room tore at his senses. X almost attacked, but the jolts of pain he felt radiating from the other stayed his claws. Instead he took up the same position Logan had, hovering in the back of his mind, ready to retake control.

A slight tremble made his hands shake as he forced his legs to move forward. His eyes darted everywhere, lightly touching the different objects in the lab. It was a surgical suite, at the center, in isolated glory, was a tank. There were carts that held the typical compliment of surgical interments; scissors, retractors, scalpels, and clamps. But that wasn't all the trays held, not by a long shot. There were strange objects he couldn't find a name for, but looking at them sent a jolt of terror down his spine.

One of the walls was made up of numerous light boxes covered in various X-rays. Silvered bones mocked him from the dark sheets. While he knew on an intellectual level that X had been created here, he hadn't made the mental leap that this was where he was destroyed.

X's birth. His death.

It all started and ended here. Something brushed over the edges of his mind, and Logan's breath came in a low shuddering sigh. It felt like a fearsome predator who, instead of tearing him to pieces, rubbed its massive head against his back instead.

He couldn't understand what had gotten into his inner feral, but he decided to accept the comfort instead of trying to pick it apart with questions. It wasn't like X could answer anyway.

Bracing himself, Logan approached the tank. At first, he'd thought it was empty. It was full of a greenish tinted liquid. Above the tank hung interments that looked like they'd be more at home in a slaughterhouse than a medical lab.

Beside the tank, at the head, was a tall cylinder made of transparent polymer whose clarity could rival pure glass, yet was much stronger if the bubbling liquid it contained was an indicator.

Taking a slow, deep breath, Logan took in the place where he'd last been whole, where he'd been shattered, where they thought they'd killed him.

He clenched his fist and felt the almost comforting sting of his blades tearing free.

"You know," Stryker said from across the room. The sound didn't make Logan jump since he'd scented the man's approach. "Adamantium is a tricky substance to work with. If you're able to process its raw form into liquid, you're forced to keep it hot. Once it's cool," a pregnant pause, "it's _indestructible._ But you already know that, don't you" Stryker said, careful to keep plenty of space between them. "I once thought you were one of a kind. I truly did. I'd thought the Director found the only one like you in the world," a dark smile flared across his lips before vanishing. "I was mistaken."

Hate flared, and before Logan could stop him, X surged back into control. Stryker's gaze sharpened. "Stand down!" The shouted command jolted the feral into stillness as protocol tried to overwhelm him. Logan shoved back from the other side, this time using his own mental claws the way X often did to him.

A roar, first mental, then physical tore from X's throat as the pain grounded him, freeing him from the mental compulsion. His claws tore free and X charged.

Before he could reach his intended target, Yuriko stepped into his path. With skill that would make Zen arch an eyebrow in appreciation, she caught his extended left arm and used his own momentum as an impetus to slam him head first into one of the support columns. Cracks erupted at the point of impact, but X didn't even stagger as he rounded to attack.

Stryker gave Yuriko a look that held unspoken command. At her nod of understanding, he disappeared through a different doorway, taking a second to lock the door behind him even though he knew the motion was less than useless. There wasn't a door in the facility X's claws couldn't cleave through.

A low rumbling snarl escaped him at the sight of his true prey escaping, but when he tried to follow, the female again placed herself in his path. The empty features of her face struck a chord him, reminding him vaguely of Zen, yet . . . not. While his little mate held little emotion, he was still fully present. The female wasn't. Something about her was lacking.

His nostrils flared as he drank in the scent of her. The feminine scent held a sharp tang of bitterness he knew to be foreign, one he recognized off the new mutant who also stank of sulfur. It had been faint in the male, barely there. This woman stank of it so much so it almost eradicated her base scent.

Yuriko gave him a bored look, as if she dealt with mutants like him every day before she took a stance and spread her fingers wide. The long slender digits elongated into eight-inch stiletto spikes.

 _Shit_ , Logan thought as he looked out of their shared eyes. Now he knew what Stryker was babbling on about, and he had the sinking feeling that it wasn't just the adamantium extras the two had in common.

Without a word, her lips pulled up into a foxlike smirk that held nothing of humanity in it. She was like some strange other, one forever gazing at the world from the outside. Instinctually, he knew he was looking at a fellow predator, one who saw all others as her prey.

Her hand darted out faster than a striking snake, leaving a sharp line of pain across his cheek. The wounds healed before a drop of blood slid free, and X's lips mimicked hers in a wolfish grin.

Hours upon hours spent fighting Zen flowed through his mind as they moved. Like Zen, the woman was about speed and using her opponent's body against them. Pain cut through him in half a dozen places as he learned her movements. She twisted around one of his strikes, and popped up behind him to unleash a savage kick to the lower back that pitched him forward, sending him crashing into one of the trays of random surgical tools. That was another difference between her and Zen, because her skeleton was equally reinforced, she hit a hell of a lot harder.

With a screech that would make a bird of prey proud, she leaped after him, slashing with both hands only to find her savage attack blocked by his larger blades. Adamantium screamed off adamantium, creating a unique brand of sparks as they fought to break through each other's guard and only managed to wreck the lab around them.

The ruckus clatter of battle chased Stryker down the hall and he allowed himself a smile as he quickened his step. Time was of the essence.

X never fought someone with his healing factor, but neither had Yuriko. On that, they were equals. However, he did have an edge over her. He'd fought Zen extensively, and by fighting with the tiny male, he'd learned all the ways his mate could incapacitate him. He used that extensive knowledge against his opponent.

Instead of going after her tender organs, the way she kept attacking, he targeted her ligaments. Her left arm went limp, claws still imbedded in his chest, as he cut the connections again and again. His free hand gripped her wrist, binding her to him so she couldn't escape.

 _Bleed her!_ Logan shouted in his mind.

Growling under his breath, he drove his free claws into her again and again, slashing through her heart, severing her abdominal aorta, scoring her throat open to the spine. No matter how hard she fought and squirmed, trying to break his hold, he kept at her, tearing her apart faster than she could heal.

Each wound spilled a little more blood, until they were both soaked in the liquid. Her dagger like fingers tore into his lower abdomen, trying to gut him but he didn't even flinch against the pain. It was no worse than the sharp kiss of Zen's daggers when he'd annoyed the smaller male too much.

As the bloody minutes passed, the fight began draining out of the woman along with the sharp stink of drugs. Each slash drained away a little more of the taint until she cried out and tried to pull away from him.

The blank look was gone, replaced with one of horrified pain. He couldn't understand the shrill almost birdlike language that spilled from her frightened, bloodstained lips, but he didn't need to. Instead he released her. Jerking away, she stumbled and almost fell on the slick floor. Her wide, terrified eyes never left him.

"Get out of here, you're free," Logan growled after stealing back enough control to speak. X refused to relinquish more, not when Zen still needed to be found. Rolling their eyes in almost fond exasperation, Logan stepped back, allowing the feral to regain control. The switch wasn't missed by Yuriko, and she did as she was told. Without another word, she turned and ran.

* * *

The mental link between Xavier and all the mutants on the planet was solid, and had been from the moment he'd made contact with them via Cerebro. He'd never attempted to run the machine at such a high level before or used his powers to such an extent. It wasn't safe for those he connected with or for himself. Already, the first stages of a monstrous headache dug its claws into him, whispering of damage being done.

But he'd accomplished the task and knew what needed to be done, yet he found himself unable to inform the little girl.

"How strange," he murmured. "I'm having trouble focusing on anyone." It wasn't a lie, not exactly. Out of all the connections he'd made, he still couldn't feel his X-Men or his students. They were out there, he was certain of that, but he couldn't s _ee_ them, and the lack bothered him, considering how intimate he was with all their minds. They should have resonated with him most of all.

"Perhaps you should concentrate harder," she offered.

Nodding, Xavier increased the gain, making the hum Cerebro gave off deepen into a dull roar.

* * *

"Twenty says they don't show," one of the soldiers, Grierson, muttered to the man next to him.

"You're on."

Lyman didn't silence the low chatter, used to the men's antics used to help ease the mental strain of waiting for danger to come to them. He eyed their position. Grierson squatted behind a concrete abutment. Near his feet rested a small mountain of spare magazines, as well as spare weapons. He was on the younger end of the scale for Stryker's men, but still had an exemplary personnel jacked, capped with a year spent as a platoon sergeant in the 82nd Airborne, humping the boonies in Afghanistan.

Once he was sure the men were well stocked – for the sixth time – he sighed. What he really wanted was a smoke. Lyman never smoked when he was home, but he indulged in one before an engagement. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew it was nerves. Even after thirty years of service with combat tours the world over, he still felt the bite of nerves before the shooting began.

One more time, Lyman found himself walking the lines, checking all the sight lines and kill zones, ensuring each soldier had an abundance of weapons and ammo. In a fair battle, against an adversary like themselves, no matter how well trained, he would have called it in their favor, no doubts. They had the superior positioning, anyone coming down the corridor wouldn't make it through the kill zone intact.

Once he was certain everything was in place, he moved silently up the corridor and turned the corner, stealing a moment of privacy. He'd broken the unspoken rule of clandestine ops: He'd brought personal items. Only photos, his wife, children, grandchild on the way. His dogs. Lyman hand raised the pair from pups, two mixed-breed shepherds that kept his wife company while he was away. The children were off building households of their own, and he knew their home had begun to feel too empty without them. She was lonely; he hoped the dogs helped keep that loneliness at bay.

What would his children say if they could see him here? Unwillingly, his thoughts turned back to the kids they'd taken from the mansion and the callous way Stryker condemned them. In a way it was funny, he'd always known the broad outline of Stryker's ambition, but he'd always assumed – no, always _chose_ to assume – the targets would be adults. Fully grown mutants.

Lyman did a dangerous thing for a soldier, he put himself into the enemy's boots and wondered what he'd do if someone broke into his home and stole his children away.

Taking a slow breath, Lyman forced himself back into calmness. He had to take a second since the first was too shuddery and his men needed to see him in complete control. Then he was forced to take yet another because the fear wouldn't be banished so easily. Its hooks dug into his mind, and he was forced to dig them out one at a time. Lyman wasn't a brilliant man and didn't care much for concepts. His expertise lay in the execution. Give him a mission, and he'd accomplish it.

"Time for me to go, sweetheart," he whispered down at the pictures in his hand before kissing each in turn. One daughter, her belly rounded with a grandchild he knew he'd never see, three fully grown sons, his two dogs, and his beloved wife, the heart of his life. Closing his hands over the photographs, Laymen prayed.

His meditation was interrupted by the sharp hum emanating from the Cerebro chamber. Sliding the photographs away, he returned to his men. The Cerebro machine sounded like an alien craft coming to life, a sound so deep it vibrated through their bones more than bounced around their ear drums. As the strange machine came to life, the ground under their feet shuddered. They all looked around nervously, expecting a horde of mutants to come bursting up out of the floors.

"Remember the briefing. This is part of the process. It might feel odd for us, but I guarantee you it'll be a thousand times worse for the muties. Keep alert."

"Ten more says this gizmo nails 'em before we get a shot off!"

"Save your money, Manfredi," Lyman snorted. "I'll win it from you in poker tonight."

He didn't get much of a laugh, but it was enough to ease some of the tension. Lyman checked over his weapons. If the muties had a lick of sense, they'd be headed this way on the double. No doubt they knew the score.

"Target sighted," Grierson stated as he leveled his sniper rifle.

Lyman brought up his binoculars, focusing in on the approaching targets. Magneto and Mystique were a hundred meters away. The elder mutie was in the lead by half a step as they marched up the hallway as if they owned the whole facility. He didn't appear to be phased by the sniper sight painting a dot over his heart.

"Clear to fire," Lyman ordered. A resounding boom echoed around the hallway, so loud the men flinched in unison.

Not only did the shell fail to destroy its target, it didn't even come close. Magneto halted it midflight without so much as a twitch of his elderly fingers.

No one waited for further orders. They all opened fire, and the air around Lyman became choked with the stench of cordite as spent casings rained down all around them. To even be considered for this team, a soldier had to be a superior marksman, and they were basically at point blank range. Even an idiot who didn't know which side of a gun was which would be hard pressed to miss.

The only time the deadly rain halted was when someone had to pause long enough to replace an empty magazine. It only took a few mindless minutes to drain over half their munitions, and they found themselves with nothing to show for the relentless barge.

Not a single bullet got within three feet of the targets. It hadn't mattered that they'd been crafted out of nonferrous materials that most had been made of compressed plastics. If he couldn't manipulate the shells directly, he warped the magnetic fields around them as well as himself, using the force of pressure to redirect them into the walls around them.

Too stunned to be frightened, the soldiers stopped firing. One or two glanced at Lyman, waiting to see if he had a plan B tucked up his sleeve. Unfortunately, he couldn't help them. He was too entranced by what was happening in front of them.

They'd thrown thousands upon thousands of rounds at the two mutants and instead of dropping the bullets or flinging them back at the soldiers, Magneto was compressing them, reshaping them into a wall that fully obscured the pair.

 _Why do they need a shield,_ Lyman wondered. _He knows we can't do anything to them –_

A faint click answered the unspoken question.

The bastard had pulled the pin on his grenade.

Grabbing the bomb, he pitched it clear of him and his men, thankful for the seven second delay on the fuse, but even as he threw it, he understood the gesture was meaningless. All around him came the fateful clicking sound. There was a whole case of grenades behind them, all the men carried a standard allotment, and they'd all been triggered.

In his mind's eye, he saw his wife and reached for her . . .

Then there was nothing but light.

The massive explosion ignited the remaining rifle ammunition and setting off an impressive conflagration of bullets. Curling her lithe body around Magneto's feet, Mystique planted her back directly against the shield in an effort to avoid the ricochet bullets buzzing around the room like a kicked hornets' nest.

Finally, the shrill pings, pops, crackles, and booms died down. Mystique fought not to choke on the heavy stench of smoke, torn flesh, and ripped bowels as she stood. The cacophony left her ears ringing in a way she doubted would fade anytime soon. It was so bad she barely heard the clatter as Magneto released the disk like shield.

Of the men who'd been set to guard the door, little remained. There weren't many chunks left that were large enough to identify as a specific body part, let alone specific individuals. At the entrance to the chamber, Magneto paused near the shredded remains of a man. In one of the odd quirks of war or natural disaster, a photograph survived the massacre. Though its edges were singed, Mystique could still make out the charming older woman hugging two bright eyed dogs. She knelt to get a better look, but Magneto stopped her with a glance.

Opening his hand, he released all the pins he'd pulled from the grenade, burying the photograph in steel.

His eyes jerked up from the mock burial and narrowed on the door as the hum from inside the chamber deepened, growing in intensity. Mystique gritted her teeth and brought her hands up to clutch at her temples. It felt like someone had slammed an ice pick into her skull.

* * *

A light appeared in front of Charles Xavier. The light formed the molten core of the holographic globe displayed by Cerebro, and radiating from it were countless tether lines, each reaching out and locking onto the crimson dots, the visual representations of active or potential mutants.

* * *

"No," Jean gasped, then yelped in agony as she lost control of her power. The teke splints disappeared from around her shattered leg. Dampening the pain psychically didn't make the pain go away, it simply allowed her to ignore it. However, the downfall was that it made the pain so much worse when she was forced to notice it. But the injury didn't matter now as she clutched at Scott's shoulder with a grip so tight he flinched as the bone groaned under the pressure.

"Jean," he demanded, sliding an arm around her waist before guiding her arm over his shoulders so he could hold her weight easier. "What's wrong?"

"So many voices," she choked, "Can't you hear them? No, of course not, how stupid. Charles, oh _God_ , Charles, what have you done?"

"Jean!"

"It's Cerebro," she sobbed, and Scott felt ice trickle down his back as he heard terror and despair in those two simple words. "We're too late."

A scream tore from her throat. It was a primal sound, something he'd only heard once before. Back when he'd been young. It was one of the only memories he had from before the orphanage where he'd spent the bulk of his childhood. He was in the mountains, a chain of them that filled the sky around him on all side. Though his dad carried a gun for protection, today they'd been out to shoot pictures. There'd been an idiot in a different hunting party who'd stepped into a bear trap. The metal teeth bit so deeply into the man's leg it almost took the limb off. His echoing howls had bounced off the mountains in the same lunatic way Jean's echoed through the room.

She fell to the floor, clutching her head, and screeching in inhuman pain. The awful pain in her voice drove him to his knees, desperate to help, but unable to do a thing to alleviate it.

A deep, alien thrum filled the air around him, almost making it feel alive before Scott lost all rational thought. Overwhelming pain exploded in his mind; his eyes boiled with it, spilling the power back into his brain, down the cord of his spine, and down his limbs. Fire blazed through his nervous system in uncontrollable waves.

The last conscious act Scott performed was to throw himself clear of Jean, wrap his arms around his head, and roll his body in on itself as tightly as possible. His power couldn't penetrate his own flesh; by doing this he hoped, prayed, he wouldn't lose total control. He refused to hurt Jean any more than he already had.

* * *

Nightcrawler and Storm raced through the stone corridors, searching for the holding cells where the children were being held hostage. Like the first warning streak of lighting in the distance, Storm felt the psi wave before she felt the effects. The air, and the energies it held, bulged and rippled, the first tiny waves that Harold an approaching tsunami.

She wasn't the only one to sense its approach. Nightcrawler dropped down from the ceiling and braced a hand against the wall. Dizziness swamped the teleporter. He'd never tasted the unfortunate effects of vertigo before, and now he was glad he'd been spared the unpleasant experience for most of his life. He tried to focus but failed. It was getting more difficult for him to hold on to a solid thought. Every cell in his body seemed to have acquired minds of their own and were attempting to teleport off to unknown destinations.

Trying to turn and warn Storm, to call out for help, Nightcrawler staggered over his own feet and flailed in a desperate attempt to keep his balance.

"Storm!" He shouted with the desperation of a dying man, but he wasn't the only one in need of saving.

Agony drove her to her knees. Storm clutched her head, caught in a whirlwind of her own power. Lighting danced around her, exploding from her eyes before circling around to slam into her back. Before today, she'd been immune to her elements, but that was no longer true as blistering arcs of electricity roiled around and _through_ her. She twisted and writhed on the ground with each impact, and although the wind tore the smoke away, they couldn't dispel the stench of her burning uniform. Nor could they erase the knowledge that in a very short amount of time, it would be her flesh burning.

"Stop it! Please, stop it! For the love of God, STOP!" Nightcrawler tried to scream, but no sound escaped. He'd lost the ability to speak. This was only the beginning of the nightmare, they both knew. It was a prelude to what awaited them all. He prayed, not only for himself or those with him, but for the souls of those responsible.

Forcing one hand in front of the other as if he were scaling a wall, Nightcrawler fought to reach Storm, to offer whatever shelter and comfort he could. He forced his arm forward, the distance seemed insurmountable. It was becoming almost impossible to move, to think, and an unbearable pressure throbbed behind his eyes, threatening to jolt them from their sockets. He feared his brain was swelling from the unbearable energy pulse.

Then the humming wave crashed over them, sweeping away all that came before.

Nightcrawler's final though was one of agonizing wonder. He'd always believed one had to die before they were forced to endure the pits of Hell.

* * *

X tried to snarl, but it morphed into a scream of agony as Logan was torn to the front as their body reacted violently to psychic wave. He couldn't hold it, nor could X, both personalities crashed against each other, a pair of boulders tossed headlong into a dryer.

Claws erupted from their hands, only extending an inch before retracting. Instead of the wounds healing, as they'd always done, blood sprayed from the cuts. It wasn't just the claw wounds, it seemed like all his past hurts were coming home, carving themselves across his flesh and painting the floor around him in thick splashes of blood. Many of the wounds were random, messy things, the legacy of knives, bullets, and the cruel hand of nature. But those weren't the only injuries to make a reappearance. Deep, careful incisions, the remnants of men who'd abandoned all allegiance to the Hippocratic Oath they'd taken to do no harm.

They'd laid Logan's body open to the bone, now in the hell where X was born, it all began again.

* * *

The psychic pressure wave crashed over Magneto with the force of a hurricane, and he forced himself to stand against it. Step by hard won step, he forced his way towards the bastardized version of Cerebro.

"Erik," the word rose up from behind him, Mystique's shattered voice, twisting between the letters, a mangled mass of voices. " _Hurry!"_ Feminine for one, masculine for the other, the tone tore up from soprano before plunging down to brass and back up again.

Fear gripped his half dead heart in its bony raven claws, and he dared not turn to see what Charles's power was doing to her. For reasons he couldn't comprehend, Cerebro appeared to be using their own power against them, transforming that which made them unique into the very weapon that would destroy them. Mystique was a metamorph, possessing the ability to shape-change, to mimic any human form to perfection. Age, gender, size, nationality, none were beyond her talent.

Now, as with Logan, her past returned to try and tear her apart. Cerebro turned her flesh to warm putty, and she lost control of her ability. Change after involuntary change was pulled out of her, flipping through every face and form she'd ever played in. Even though she'd perfected her skill to the point that the transformations looked effortless, it wasn't. It had taken endless years of training, practice, and preparation for her to transform with such ease.

Every transformation took effort. The more she changed, the faster she did it, the greater the toll. To grow taller, she had to bulk up to provide the raw material. Shorter meant an equivalent burning off of mass. Flesh was easiest for her to shape, bones were trickier, and internal organs the most difficult of all. Because of that, most of her gender shifts were cosmetic only.

All the rules were thrown out the window now. The shifts came so fast she appeared as multiples. Her coloring with Jean Grey's face, Robert Kelly's torso, Zen's legs, Xavier's face, Magneto's hair, Scott's torso, Bobby's face rose up from her belly, someone else's from each breast, arms became legs and feet grew fingers, all the mad alterations were made more hellish by the rising chorus of maddened howls from mouths that sprouted all over her body, each capable of independent speech and all screaming in agony under the relentless pressure of the wave.

Before long, the transformations would come so swiftly that her consciousness – that fundamental self she'd never lost to all her many transformations – would splinter. On a cerebral and cellular level, Mystique would forget who and what she was, resulting in her becoming little more than a puddle of discorporate, mindless cells.

Magneto understood what was happening to her, and what the fate would be for both her and every other mutant on the planet – unless he stopped it.

* * *

The puddle in the corner they were reduced to using as a latrine had grown in the hours they'd spent trapped in the cement room, creating a stench that permeated everything. It wasn't the worst thing Zen had ever smelled. Compared to cleaning up after some of the Doctor's more volatile experiments, it was as pleasant as strolling through a field of wildflowers. But he could tell by the disgusted look on the other children's faces whenever one of them had to go and add to the mess how revolted they were.

 _So weak_ , he mused, knowing they were the stone around his neck, holding him back. If they were stronger, he could have used them to aid in their escape, but they were weak. Foolish children who'd believed nothing bad would ever happen to them in spite of what the news showed and the precarious place mutants held on the world stage. They'd thought themselves safe behind Xavier's elegant walls when it was those very walls that kept them soft and untried.

His sharp eyes studied Pietro as the speed mutant passed by him in another circuit of endless pacing. Unlike the others, he'd been touched by the horror of the real world and lived to tell about it, though through no skill of his own. Blind luck saved him, and the conscience of a man who'd also been weak. Zen expected to have to track down and eliminate Wrath at some point in the future, so he hadn't been surprised when he learned of the teleporter's foolish attempt at saving the children after he'd been ordered to aid in their destruction.

Still, Pietro at least understood the stakes. He'd seen the carnage they both were a part of and knew how dark the real world was outside of the shining halls of Xavier's Institute. His Wielder wasn't helping the children by keeping them locked away from the truth, he was only making them into easier targets. So much lost potential because one foolish old man thought that mutants should be treated like civilian children instead of the weapons they were.

Cold radiated up into his bones from the cement, bringing with it the memories of the mountains and his own taste of weakness. Reluctantly, he longed for X, wishing he was curled up in the feral's lap and held in his strong arms, listening to the steady thrum of his heart and not sitting here alone with the impossible task of getting all these useless sheep out alive.

"I'm hungry! I wanna eat, I don't wanna go potty on the floor anymore and I…I wanna go home and see Kitty!" Malcom's shrill young voice cut through Zen's useless thoughts, drawing his narrow green gaze. The child was even more useless than the rest. With useless powers and the utter weakness of his age, he was the biggest liability of the group. Already, two of the girls were cuddling the small boy, cooing at him and trying to sooth the brat before he brought the guards down on them. Not that the guards would bother with one crying child, but they didn't know that.

His sobs grew louder, more grating as their attempts failed to console the boy. The sound was like a spike being driven into Zen's skull, and he longed to silence it. Crying wouldn't solve their problem, and it only proved how pathetically weak the child was.

Still, he remained seated and silent, ignoring the noise. Instead of getting up the throttle the boy into silence, he closed his eyes and focused. Something tickled at the back of his mind, some growing power that felt familiar but twisted at the same time.

 _Wielder?_ He focused on the thought, sending it out as strongly as he could, but got no response. The throbbing power grew, pressing against his eardrums like a sharp shift in altitude and it was only as the wave crashed over them that he understood Stryker's endgame.

As if a bomb went off in their cage the children dropped. A cacophony of screams rang out around him. _No._ Weak though they were, pathetic, foolish, blind children, he had a duty to defend and protect them. He would not allow them to die, not even by Xavier's hand.

Standing, Zen picked his way through the writhing bodies until he made it to the center of the group. Pietro lay twitching on the ground, his limbs thrashing so fast they were little more than a blur of color while his mouth gaped open in a hellish scream. Jubilee flailed on the ground as sparks danced and bit over her skin like a boiling tide of fire ants. Zen gritted his teeth as one of the tiny bolts of electricity arced between them as he passed and jolted through his leg.

Closing his eyes, Zen focused. A shield, spherical in shape to protect the children from all angles, bloomed around them. He pumped power into the shield, making it strong, stronger than wood, stronger than stone, stronger than steal, stronger than adamantium.

It didn't work.

The screams took on a more desperate pitch around him as the children's power began to burn them out.

"NO!" he snarled. Without a thought to his own safety, Zen threw open connection between him and his power, tore it open, allowing power to gush directly from his core to the shield.

His eyes glowed an inhuman green, sending strange shadows to twist and dance over the walls as power blasted through him. A sharp crack sounded as the intangible shield cut through the stone in a perfect circle around the tormented group. The very air could no longer escape, and the power continued to strengthen the barrier between them and the threat as Zen stood against the strongest psychic mutation the world had ever known.

A harsh blue glow began to emanate from the shield, its fierce light reflecting Zen's unbreakable will.

* * *

Magneto lifted a single hand in an imperial gesture that wouldn't be denied. A new sound rose to challenge Cerebro's sharp droning wave: the guttural whine of metal forced to endure stresses beyond its tolerances. Back at Mount Haven, he hasn't been able to employ his power to its fullest since the complex he'd been housed in was constructed of non-ferrous materials and revolutionary plastics. However, Alkali was far older, built in the days when the likes of him hadn't been considered. There was an endless amount of mental here for him to do with as he pleased, and even though the Cerebro wave was a near insurmountable obstacle, he would not permit himself to fail.

He'd survived Auschwitz and lived to see his tormenters in their graves, some he'd put there himself. This would be the same.

With teeth bearing effort, the metal began to warp. He could hear the shift in the timber of sound emanating from the Cerebro as the wave slowed.

* * *

Charles Xavier heard nothing outside the false world Mutant 143 created. His gaze remained on the globe circling around them, captured by the firefly dance of the crimson dots. The color was mimicked in the blood trickling from his nostrils, ears, and the corners of his eyes as the strain began rupturing the pinpoint capillaries feeding his brain.

These were only the first symptoms of being the origin of the wave, the focal point of the unleashed power, and as of yet, would not result in permanent damage.

That wouldn't last, Mutant 143 knew in the deepest pits of his shattered psyche. Soon, once the pulse reached its peak, the larger blood vessels would rupture, and he would be consumed by an all-encompassing cerebral hemorrhage. Xavier would die from the ultimate stroke, but not before he witnessed the merciless slaughter of all the people on earth who were connected to Cerebro.

Stryker's revenge would be complete then. Not only would Xavier die along with all the other filthy mutants, but so would the future they represented. The slaughter of his dreams would be the true death of Xavier, and before he met his own end, Mutant 143 would ensure Xavier understood the full import of what he'd done.

And then 143 would also die. Cold satisfaction filled Stryker at the elegant resolution. All the loose ends would be neatly cut. In one stroke, he'd removed not only the threat to the world, but the weapon used to deal with it.

The truth of his impending death didn't bother 143. Part of him didn't actually believe he could die. Throughout his twisted life, he'd managed to hold on to the childish belief in his own immortality. He couldn't envision his own end. What mattered for him now, as it had since his mutation first became active, was playing with his toys. They were mortal, fragile.

He was God. And He had work to do.

143's demonic eyes pulsed, spilling their damning light into the heart of Xavier's being. All around them, the once soft whispers of all the thoughts Cerebro allowed Xavier to hear, rose up in a cacophony of screams.

* * *

Fear made Scott's heart flutter like a trapped bird in his chest. He felt sick when he realized he wouldn't be able to contain his power for much longer. As the power built, he could feel the ruby quartz visor reaching its containment capacity. Tiny pinpricks of light were beginning to escape through the spaces between his fingers. Small enough to do little damage, but they were a frightful harbinger of the coming devastation.

Jean clutched her ears in a futile attempt to block out the howling madness that enveloped Xavier. Screaming, she slammed her broken leg against the wall, not caring if she permanently crippled herself if it meant she could use the physical pain to create a bulwark against the psychic devastation.

To her shock, it worked, though not in the way she'd intended. Her teke shifted into high gear as it latched on to the memory of Logan's power. The memory of his healing ability made her own flesh recall what felt like on a cellular level to be whole and her power stove to make it so. Each shard of broken bone, large and smile, visible to microscopic, jolted from where they'd splinted throughout her flesh and rearranged themselves back into their proper place.

Jean thought she understood pain, she'd experienced a great deal of it both directly and vicariously through her power as she sent her mind into those she healed to help ease their suffering, but now she learned the true depth of agony as all those bone fragments tore new paths through her body to reach their appointed positions. She shrieked, fighting against the pain, yet grateful for it too as it jerked her out of Cerebro and her vain attempt to fight her way through the impassible lake of acid thoughts to reach Charles so that she could join her strength with his so that together they could neutralize the wave.

Fire blazed inside her, and Jean assumed it was her power attempting to find a way to fuse her bones back together, but as the blaze grew her thought splintered, fragmenting and turning to fear when she realized she couldn't control it. The heat bled into an astonishing radiance whose power was beyond measure. It bloomed inside of her like a star bursting into creation.

With a wild shout of joy, Jean Grey spread wide the arms of her imagination and reached out to embrace the stars.

Madness stalked the edges of her mind, but she refused to give in. Not to the madness, or the pain. If this fire was the heart of her power, she would find a way to ride it, to use it to save all those she loved. If she was truly dying, then she'd find a way back from the ashes. Jean refused to go quietly into the dark night of eternity.

* * *

Back on the _Blackbird_ , Rogue fought to reach the controls, to complete Storm's last command, but she fell short. She couldn't drag herself up from the floor where she'd fallen. Tears slid down her cheeks as she watched Bobby reach for her, and she didn't have the strength to pull away. His grip froze her all the way up to the shoulder the same way he'd coated the area around him with a sheet of sparkling hoarfrost.

His skin had morphed into transparency, allowing her a horrifying view through him. She could see the deeper blue of his bones, the lighter hints of what had to be lung and heart both working. No blood appeared to move through that strange frozen flesh, no visible nerves, and every time he moved, there was a faint crackling sound. When he spoke, it was an arctic breeze that sounded nothing like his normal self.

The soft tinkle of ice shattering filled the air around them as he wrenched off her glove. Silently, she begged him to stop, but she couldn't force her lips to form the words. A wave of people were crashing around inside her head, every person she'd ever imprinted on rose up inside her skull, howling with rage at what she'd done to them. They ignored her stuttered apologies, her feeble explanations as they demanded she yield her body to them.

He was trying to save her, she knew, offering his strength to give her a chance to survive. She didn't want it, couldn't bear it if she lived by draining him, but she knew he didn't care.

Without a word, he took her bare hand in his, initiating contact and imprinting. Her eyes bulged wide as her hand turned the same liquid ice as his while his flesh melted back into its normal human coloration.

"Stop it Bobby!" She screamed, a plume of icy air escaped with her words, their tone as cold and remote as the outer reaches of space.

Twin tears of ice slid from her eyes and his, freezing into diamonds on their cheeks.

* * *

Rain pelted the cement around Storm as thunder roared only to be answered by the howling winds. Lightning continued its relentless assault. She lay face down in the center of the storm, no longer moving as endless bolts of electricity pounded her body.

In contrast, Nightcrawler couldn't stop moving as his body teleported in place over and over until it created an odd strobe light affect.

* * *

John's trek through the white waste between the jet and the dam ended abruptly when the wave felled him. Unable to move, he gasped for breath, hyperventilated as he gulped down air in a desperate attempt to fuel the raging conflagration in him. His skin glowed as the snow around him melted under the heat radiation out from his flesh.

* * *

Kitty and Siryn were out on a shopping trip, gathering up as much food two teens could buy with the handful of cash they had between them. Between one breath and the next, Kitty found herself at the end of the aisle. Another half breath saw her inside a tree and lodged up to her knees in the ground. She fought to move, but to her horror, found her feet unable to gain purchase on the now insubstantial earth. That's when understanding sank terrible claws into her mind. _She_ wasn't moving. The Earth was spinning on its axis and leaving her behind because she was no longer solid enough for gravity to hold her.

What was worse, was that the planet was also moving around the sun. How long would it take for her and earth to part ways as she remained stuck in place and her home planet went off on its merry celestial way?

* * *

Siryn had no idea what was happening to her friend. She'd heard a squawk of surprise, spotted Kitty disappearing through the back wall of the store, and then her world exploded into sound. She shrieked up and down the full range of her accessible frequencies, inspiring a lunatic choir of yawls from every dog within earshot. All around her, glass rained down as it shattered under the strain of her piercing voice.

* * *

The sweet scent of clover smoke drifted up from the back room at Delamain's on the Rue Rogue in New Orleans's Vieux Carre, the French Quarter, as a high-stakes game of power played out. While the casinos had the flash, this game had substance that had nothing to do with the size of the bets and everything to do with the quality of the players.

Even before his forced vacation, Remy LeBeau was one of the best, and after leaving Xavier's behind he'd found his way home, back to the card tables he loved. It was said the cards themselves loved him the way he loved the women who inevitably found their way into his life, which was often a wild and risky place to be. A thief by trade, he was better at it than cards, which said a lot.

One item he loved stealing above all others was hearts. They were by far more fun than jewelry or artwork since the greatest trick of all was to ensure the heart he stole was never broken. When it came to the game of hearts, he had no equals. Once an affair was ended, his lady loves loved him more than when they met.

That night was fair in terms of winnings, but only because he had been testing his fellow players, feeling out their tells. Now it was time to get serious.

He was the dealer and the deck yielded up the joker and the jack of hearts to complete his full house. With a shark-like grin, he flicked the cards down but as they left his hands, a spark leapt from between his fingers to ignite the cards with energy. They blazed with crimson light and split the table down the middle when they struck. At the same time, while the other players leapt back in shocked fear, all the other cards began to ignite.

Shock flared over his face as he looked at the others, his hand reached out for help, but all they saw were his blazing eyes, red as freshly spilled blood, and none of them reached back. Then the cards exploded, shattering the remains of the table into splinters and slamming everyone into the walls.

* * *

Mystique had stopped moving which wasn't a good thing. Much like the Wicked Witch of the West in _The Wizard of Oz_ after she'd gotten a face full of water curtesy of Dorothy, she was melting. Her flesh began to liquefy and form a puddle beneath her. Like a poorly filmed horror movie, her skeleton began to press against the skin in macabre lines that would soon be exposed to the open air once her flesh finished the liquefaction process.

Would she still be able to think at that point, be aware of her body's total deterioration? Would her conscious remain until the end? A shudder rippled through the oozing flesh, whatever happened, she feared it would be her end.

Magneto kept his hawk like gaze locked on the door, refusing to look back even after the nightmarish howling ended in a low gurgle. Instead of focusing his power at the door, he changed tactics. He put the sharp edge of his strength against the energy patterns making up the Cerebro wave. Energy manipulation was one of his strongest points, though few people knew or understood that. Most believed his only talent was with metal. Drawing on all his considerable skill, he unwove the frequencies and signal characteristics of the wave.

Once he was certain he'd properly mapped the wave, he released an equivalent pulse and watched the two collide. Not good enough. Magneto carefully modified the counter wave's frequency before releasing it. It formed a wall of white noise around the chamber, a resonance field that fully neutralized the Cerebro wave at its source.

Silence enveloped him.

Beautiful silence.

* * *

The harsh thrum died around them, causing Charles Xavier to sit up straighter in his chair while Stryker's Cerebro began to cycle down.

"Strange," he mumbled. The word echoed oddly in his mind, and he felt like it had two different meanings for him. First relating to why Cerebro had shut down on its own. While the other, disturbingly, seemed to relate to the itching sense of _wrongness_ that wouldn't leave him since his escape from Alkali Lake.

Turning his head, he gave the little girl a sharp eyed look, as if trying to catch her by surprise. Worry flared over her young face, showing that she wasn't expecting the shutdown either. Xavier's lips forced themselves upward in a comforting smile to reassure her. He was still in control, and everything would be all right.

The smile seemed to help ease her anxiety, but her mismatched eyes still glowed with a feral brightness.

 _Back to work_ , he thought. All he needed to do was identify the problem and fix it, then things would be back on track.

Still, as he returned his attention to Cerebro, he hesitated, his eyes returned to the girl while his thoughts reached out to her through the veil sounding him. Something about her felt . . .

Xavier shook his head, dizzy from the afterimage of her eyes blazing in his mind. He knew now what needed to be done, and his hands moved without his mind consciously directing them. Someone had jammed the scanning wave. It wasn't hard to deduce who'd done it, and from there, Xavier knew how to break free.

Seeing her toy once again working hard to fulfill his duty, the girl looked away, towards the massive door that stood between them and the strangers. That wasn't part of the deal, and she hated it.

* * *

It took a few minutes for Magneto to gather his strength. In its own way, his battle against Cerebro was as difficult for him as it was for the others, taking a heavy toll on the aged mutant.

Finally he turned, and because she was no longer able to see him and was unaware of anything beyond her own suffering, he permitted sorrow to show on his face at Mystique's condition. In the countless years they'd shared, he'd become accustomed to her at his side. She'd been strong and absolutely without fear, indomitable in will and curiously indestructible in form. Seeing her in such a weakened condition hurt him in ways he hadn't believed possible. He hated seeing her hurt and vulnerable.

Taking a steadying breath, Magneto knelt beside her and feared what he would find. Her once beautiful liquid gold eyes were opaque, blind and lifeless as a doll's. Her form looked like it was made out of wax that had been exposed to raw flame, leaving a great deal of her in congealed folds beneath her straining skeleton.

Then something changed in her eyes. Though they were still opaque, the blankness began to fade. Instead they took on the otherworldly depths of a shark's liquid gaze. With unbearable slowness, she blinked, and to his secret relief, color returned to both her eyes and her body.

With unbearable slowness, Mystique flexed and stretched as if to remind herself how each part of her fit into the next. Her flesh returned to its customary position around her bones and with a low groan, she flowed upward into a sitting position and looked her companion in the eye.

No words passed between the pair, and none were needed.

Magneto stood, and with a flick of power, the massive door between them and their prize swung open.

Together, they stepped over the threshold. Magneto's eyes roved over the space, and he was forced to silently commend their enemy as he took stock of each part of the huge circular room. Stryker had achieved a startling amount of accuracy in the time he'd had between the raid and the implementation of his plot.

Xavier sat mindlessly on the dais, facing a revolting creature. Its outward appearance wasn't what made Magneto's lips curl in disgust. Over the years, Magneto had seen a number of mutations that did not conform to that baseline norms of human physiognomy. He'd also come face to face with the living embodiments of true evil, and that's what he responded too. No matter what had been done to the monster seated across from Xavier, Magneto instinctively knew that he would have been right at home working alongside Josef Mengele.

A sardonic smile touched his lips. Considering what Magneto had in mind, the comparison was quite apt.

"Hello, Charles."

* * *

The hauntingly powerful song drew to a close, leaving Jean alone in her mind once more. She was whole, alive, and fulfilled in a way she couldn't recall ever feeling before. Yet a painful hollowness remained and thrummed with a need more primal than she'd ever known and no clue how to answer it.

Instead, she woke up.

Glancing to the side, her gaze found Cyclops and relief filled her at the sight of him – battered, but unbroken. She greeted him with a radiant smile as he stirred awake. While he gathered himself, Jean too stock of her surroundings. Unfortunately, the telepath inhibiters were still active, so she still felt isolated inside her own mind. She could sense the others in a vague way, just enough to know they were relatively unharmed before the pain pressed against her mind in warning against pushing farther.

When she turned her thoughts towards Xavier, she felt a growing sense of disquiet. Whatever stopped the wave hadn't put an end to the situation they found themselves in, not in the least.

Jean bent her broken leg experimentally and winced against the pain that lanced up the limb. While her subconscious had done an amazing job realigning all the bone fragments the task was unfinished. Each bone bit still needed to knit together, and her internal medical caution kept her from attempting to rush the process even though her power whispered in the back of her mind that she _could,_ she wasn't willing to risk permanently maiming herself by experimenting.

For a mutant whose gifts were purely invisible to the naked eye, Jean preferred tangible solutions to tangible problems, like a broken leg.

As Scott sat up she thought, _Thank heaven I have you to lean on, baby._ Shame flooded her at the thought.

_Worry about that later, if there is a later._

* * *

Nightcrawler prayed, curled up in a ball of deep indigo, his shape was almost indistinguishable from the shadows as he lay with his hands curled protectively around his head, which in turn pressed against his knees in a pose of abject supplication.

Storm allowed the foreign words to wash over her, mentally picking out a mix of French, Latin, and German.

_Our Father, who are in Heaven . . ._

Perhaps prayer was the best response to a situation as messed up as the one they found themselves in, Storm didn't know. Indeed, she was thankful, thankful that her powers were no longer attacking her, thankful to be alive, just . . . thankful.

Gritting her aching teeth, she crawled to her feet and fought to ignore the horrific smell that wafted around her from the mutilated uniform on her back, burnt to a crisp by the lightning. Her nerves jangled like broken wires in a high wind, dancing with tiny sparks of remembered pain. It felt like she'd died and maggots were feasting on her, crawling through her flesh and leaving a God forsaken itch too deep to scratch. Even her bones seemed to itch with the squirming pain.

She moved with the same cautious steps of an old woman afraid of overbalancing and breaking a hip. Every step and gesture was executed with care. A wary moan escaped her as she knelt beside Nightcrawler and slid her fingers down his back. Delight flitted up her arm as she felt the soft luxurious skin. It was soft, plush, and more of a textural pleasure than new born lion cub fur.

"Are you all right? We need to get to the children," her voice held a far huskier edge than usual, roughened by pain and almost unbearable exhaustion. Part of her wanted to curl around the teleporter and sleep, forget duty, the children, the unstable dam. Forget everything but the softness of his skin and her desperate need for rest.

 _No_ , she wouldn't forsake her duty.

His tail came up and wrapped gently around her wrist, inspiring another small thrill to pass through her, briefly distracting her from the lingering pain.

"Ja, lass uns gehen," he muttered, still too shaken by his near demise to remember English. With her help, they both managed to regain their feet. No words were spoken, but Storm didn't protest when he slid an arm around her waist, offering his silent support and taking hers in return.

* * *

The escape tunnel exited in a small clearing just off the edge of the main complex, roughly a mile downriver from the dam. Stryker's lips turned up in a triumphant grin when he spotted the helicopter, knowing it was all gassed up and ready to fly.

Without looking back, Stryker marched forward, his mind already moving on to the after math and the best way to consolidate his power structure and ensure that the world he'd saved from the mutant threat continued to head in the right direction.

His pleased look evaporated when a familiar shape stepped out of the shadow of the aircraft.

"Yuriko."

* * *

Magneto gave a low, dark chuckle at the look of aggravation that crossed the wheel chair bound mutant's face.

Tapping the helm, Magneto said, "You can't come in here."

Then he drew a magnetic field around himself and rose into the air until he came to rest at in the heart of the holographic glob. He couldn't withhold his grin as he did a slow pirouette, observing all the tiny blood red dots. Not in his wildest dreams had he imagined there were so many, and he couldn't help remembering the concentration camps after the war, how it had been a soul deep wound to realize how many had met their ends there, yet the choking joy restored by the discovery that in spite of the Nazis' relentless efforts, there were survivors. Enough remained alive to form the core of a new nation.

Taking a slow breath, he thought of Moses standing on the shores of the River Jordan, as he stared longingly at a promise land barred to him.

How would future generations judge him?

As long as those future children were mutant, he didn't care. All that mattered now was his success, that in the end it was his kind who survived and prospered. If it wasn't, then it didn't matter because that meant he'd failed and the future of mutants would continue hanging by the thread of human kindness, a thing he knew from hard experience was a false hope at best. Either way, Magneto resolved to do what had to be done.

Xavier remained oblivious to his company, ensnared as he was by Stryker's monster.

Shaking his head in mock sorrow, Magneto sighed. "How does it look from there, Charles?" Even though there was a flare of pity in his chest for his old friend, the words still held a razor edge, contempt for Charles's weakness. And irony of ironies, if it hadn't been for Xavier, Magneto wouldn't have been captured and used by Stryker to ferret out the secrets of Xavier's School and Cerebro.

And yet, that single act led them to this point, where Magneto was handed the tool required to ensure the continued survival of their species.

"Still fighting the good fight?" He mocked as he turned to study Stryker's work. Eyes narrowing, he reconfigured Cerebro. The air around the groaned as the massive machine began to deconstruct and realign. Metallic panels took to the air like oddly shaped birds only to be joined with metal braces, cabling, conducts, and all the other components that were needed to create the mockery of the device they'd created long ago.

"From here, it don't look like they're playing by your rules," he mused as the last pieces slid neatly into place. "Perhaps it's time we started playing by theirs."

Once the reconfiguration was completed, Mystique smirked and strode into the chamber. It took less than five steps for her shape to change so that, when she reached the small group, a perfect replica of William Stryker stood in her place.

A cruel smile quirked her stolen lips as she glanced at Xavier, who was still blind to everything but what 143 was feeding him. Kneeling beside Mutant 143, she took pains to avoid touching the deformed man as she started whispering in his ear. "There's been a change of plans . . ."

She spoke with Stryker's face, in his voice, and 143's eyes bulged as the poisoned words slid eel like through his mind. A string of saliva slipped out of the corner of his mouth and something akin to excitement flared in his exotic eyes. Still pretending, Mystique turned and left the way she came.

Magneto stayed behind and tried to find something to say to his old friend. Back at Ellis Island, he'd been prepared to sacrifice the life of a child to achieve his goals, and now he was going to take the life of a friend. What was there to say? Nothing, no word or deed would undo what had to be done, and he knew that it wasn't the lives of the untold billions who would die with Xavier that would be unforgivable.

Using Xavier like this tipped the scales in a way that could never again be balanced, and Magneto accepted that. If there was a hell, he would know its fires, but it was a fate he could accept as long as mutant kind lived on in peace.

"Good-bye, Charles."

* * *

Zen didn't know what was happening outside the sphere of his shield. All his power, everything he was, poured into the defenses to the point where he couldn't sense what else might be going on. Had the wave dissipated? Were they safe?

No way to know. So he kept pouring and pouring.

Agony tore his mind as he felt the last flare of his strange power drain out of him. _No!_ The shield faltered. Before it could fail, he found another source of power, his life force. With reckless abandon, he spilled his life down the line with a single thought pounding away inside his skull.

_Protect the children._

* * *

Tiny trembles darted over Pietro's skin. He felt like a horse covered in flies, and desperately wished the random twitching would stop. On top of that, he was almost blinded by the phosphorescent blue light blazing all around them. It felt like he'd been dropped into some sort of black light hell, and it wasn't helping his head ache one little bit.

As if the world heard his mental complaints, the alien light snuffed out. Blinking back spots, his eyes fell on Zen's frozen form. He stared incredulously at the streaks of pure silver that now decorated the hated mutant's once black mane. Then he saw Zen's eyes, and looking into those dead green orbs, he felt like he'd swallowed an ice cube.

Before he could react, the short teen's body toppled forward, and Pietro winced when Zen didn't put his hands out to catch himself. _Shit, he's dead. He's so fucking dead._

* * *

Zen stood in an empty black field that reminded him of the white one, once spatter with blood, where he learned how to kill. In front of him stood a doorway, one he couldn't see through.

A slender finger of curiosity brushed over his numb thoughts. Zen took a step forward. Something around him gave a low rattling sound, and he was jerked to a halt. Looking down, he saw chains wrapped around his nude form. Each link alternated between deepest ebony and blazing white light.

 _You could break free._ The strange though hissed along the edges of his awareness, and he flexed a little, testing the strength of the bindings.

Then his eyes were drawn down to the only thing of color in this between place. His right hand was free of the chains holding him back, and Zen brought it up to touch the slender red thread that seemed to exit his chest just above his heart.

Instinct told him the thread was weak, a connection so fragile he could snap it with ease. His finger brushed over the thread, twanging it lightly.

Images flooded his mind, and with them, the soft heat of emotion.

_X pinned him for the first time, the sharp tang of defeat, the first taste of his teeth in his flesh when it should have been his throat torn open._

_Bitter cold, the shared warmth of two bodies resting beside a fire._

_The first taste of hot meat cooked over an open flame._

_Something hard, yet soft pressing into his stomach, the low rumble of X's growls, the sharp bite of teeth in his throat, not to kill but for . . ._

_The sharp sting of fury when Logan kissed the woman, and wanting to be in her place._

_Want, need, lust, love . . ._

He could break the thread.

He could break the chain.

He could be free.

* * *

Thank you all for reading, reviewing, and adding my story to your favorites.

Please don't kill me!


	36. This is How You Remind Me

**Warning:** Torture, character death, slash. If you're not interested in the sex scene, feel free to skip it, I will clearly mark the start and finish.

* * *

**Chapter 36 – This is How You Remind Me of What I Really Am**

* * *

_"I'd killed him in the end, but revenge only makes things all better in the movies. In real life, once the villain is dead, the trauma lives on inside the victims." - Laurell K. Hamilton, Bullet_

* * *

The new orders flared brightly in Mutant 143's mind and he eagerly spilled them into Xavier's throbbing brain.

Around the pair of wheelchair bound mutants, the brilliant white globe sprang back into life. But unlike before, when the continents had been speckled with little red dots, now it blazed with a countless number of shimmering white ones, representing everyone else. Magneto granted them both access to every non-mutant sentient mind on the planet in order to destroy them all.

* * *

Blinking up at the ceiling, Logan and X drifted together. Not meshed, not merged, but like a pair of shipwreck survivors drifting on the now calm face of the ocean that tried to destroy them.

For long minutes, all they could do was recover from the shattering attack. But, true to their nature, the recovery was both quick and complete. Tattered flesh reformed, wounds sealed up as if they'd never been, and all that remained was a lingering sense of dizziness left over from the blood loss and the proverbial lake of ruby liquid they laid in.

Taking a breath, Logan slid into control and levered himself up into a sitting position. He gave a low whistle when he saw the Jackson Pollock mess they'd left behind during their thrashing. A flicker of thought popped his claws, ensuring that they remained undamaged. The tiny part of him fretting about his healing factor was silenced when the wounds vanished in the same way they'd always done. Taking that as a good sign, Logan flexed his limbs and arched his back to work out any lingering kinks.

A low rumble echoed in the back of his thoughts. "Yeah, yeah," he huffed, and let go, sinking back into the strange space in their mind that had become a shared home sometime during this whole disastrous mission. He didn't need to look to know that the cage Xavier built to contain X was gone. _Maybe it's for the best_ , he thought, feeling a small ray of unaccustomed optimism.

X abandoned the room, uncaring of the bloody mess they left behind. All his feral thoughts rested on Zen, and even Logan couldn't deny the twin flames of worry that burned in their hearts. How had the wave affected the tiny male? Was he alive? Where was he?

Though he refused to admit it, Logan silently pushed X to move faster. They had to find Zen.

* * *

"Yuriko." The word lashed the air between them, a whip crack demand for obedience. Instead of dipping her head in acknowledgment, the feral mutant's lips pulled back in a sharp-toothed smirk.

"I am your dog no longer," her voice held a lilting accent he'd never heard from her, and as she stepped fully into the light, a chill that had nothing to do with the snow trickled through his veins. Blood streaked over her skin in gaudy streamers, so bright it almost looked fake. Her hair dripped with it, and he bit back a gasp of shock.

Stryker offered an insincere smile of his own. "Were you able to finish off X?" The question earned a low snarl, causing the man to sigh. "Every time I think I've found the best way to tame your kind, I find myself disappointed." That she was here, preparing to attack, didn't bode well for his greater plans. Xavier's machine should have struck by now, so how was she still standing?

His useless musings ended when the woman who'd been his slave attacked. Dignity kept Stryker from trying to turn and flee. Pride saw him reaching for his gun, even though he knew it was futile. He'd created her after all, and he knew better than most how effective she was. Her dainty foot connected with bone crushing force, jolting a yelp of agony from his throat as the weapon spun away, vanishing into the snow.

Another kick, this one to his upper chest, slammed the military man to the ground with enough force to choke off his prior scream. After the force of the two kicks, her gentle weight settling on his chest almost went unnoticed as he fought to drag air into his tortured lungs. Almost.

The sound of slender blades hissing free of their organic sheathing jolted him, and his winter pale eyes widened as dainty claws inched towards his face. Skin and muscle split, spilling his crimson life over the snow. His agonized scream fought the wind.

* * *

For the first time since his mutation activated, Pietro stood frozen. He couldn't move, could hardly breathe as he stared at the body unable to understand his own tangled feelings. IX was dead. He wanted Zen to breath. _Breathe, breathe damn it. Get up! Stay down, be dead, never move again._ The conflict held him motionless, poised on the razor edge of the moment, waiting to see if the narrow chest would rise or not.

"Zen!" Malcom's childlike voice rose above Pietro's clamoring thoughts, and before he could react, the small boy latched onto the downed assassin. "Oh no, no, no, no! It's all gone." Tears spilled down the boy's cheeks as he patted Zen's blank face.

"Malcom, come on, get away from him," Jubilee staggered to her feet, feeling rather crispy around the edges as she tried to grab the boy to pull him away. Refusing, Malcom clung to the body.

"NO!" red faced, dripping tears and snot, his terrified blue eyes sought out Sandy. "It's all gone. H-he used it up to save us. He saved us! We gotta save him back, we gotta, we're the good guys."

Shame clawed inside the gathered children, who'd all been willing to let Zen's sacrifice stand. Sandy wanted to shake her head, to refuse, but looking into Malcom's wide, innocent eyes, eyes that begged her to make things right, she couldn't say no. It would be too much like stomping on a new born kitten.

Pietro's body jerked, movement returning as the teen stood and made her shaky way over to the fallen mutant. His mouth opened, then closed, remembering the eye burning blue light he'd woken up to. The shield. _He saved us. Damn, we owe him one._

"I-I can't do it by myself. He's all used up, I'm going to need help," Sandy admitted, heat burning in her plump cheeks even though the rest of her face remained ash pale. "Line up, hold hands," she took a deep, shuddering breath as she sat cross legged next to Zen's head. Even though she was resolved, she couldn't help but cringe as she reached out to put her hand against Zen's forehead, still half expecting the tiny assassin to wake and attack her for touching him. He didn't move, and he wasn't breathing. Swallowing hard, she held up her other hand.

Without hesitation, Malcom took it and held his hand out. One more devastating wounded puppy look got Jubilee to join hands. One by one the chain formed as the children linked their hands together until Pietro was the only one standing alone. "Please?" Malcom whispered, tears spilling down his red cheeks to tug at heart strings Pietro could have sworn died with his sister.

"Damn it all anyway," he growled as he sat down and grabbed the hand held out to him. Once his hand completed the chain, it began. A rough tug, not at his flesh, but at his power. Pietro hissed, wanting to jerk his hand free. By the way the rest of the kids jumped and whimpered, he knew he wasn't the only one who wanted to break the chain, but he held on.

It felt like a strand of rough wool was being pulled from a hole in his palm, uncomfortable couldn't begin to describe the burning itch of it. Gritting his teeth, he closed his eyes and silently cursed the tiny mutant for making him share his power to keep the idiot alive.

From linked hand to linked hand, Sandy drew their powers. Unlike Rogue, she could control her gift, and she could not only draw power into herself, she could spill it out into others. Though hers converted gifts into energy, and she couldn't use another's power that she'd taken. Instead, she could feed on the energy, live off it, if she had to.

Closing her eyes, she shoved the wadded up ball of power down her arm, and into Zen in one giant push.

* * *

Zen stood on the threshold of death, studying the black doorway. All that held him back was the chain of obedience, and a slender thread binding him to X . . . _Not just X._ No, not just X, he thought, running the tip of his finger over the thread again, feeling the flood of emotion tangled up in the crimson line. When had Logan managed to twine his own thread into the line?

Ignoring the crimson thread, he gripped the chain, giving it an experimental tug. Pain arced through him, a whisper of lightning against his flesh, a promise that he could break it, but not without paying the price.

Again, his dead eyes lingered on the doorway. How many times had he experienced death in the mindscape during his training? A thousand times? A hundred thousand? He didn't know. What stood on the other side of death? He didn't know that either. Curiosity burned beneath his skin, demanding satisfaction.

Without making a conscious decision, his fingers tightened on the chain. Before he could shatter the links, agony tore the world asunder.

* * *

An inhuman scream tore from Zen's throat, shattering the chain of children as they broke apart, jerking away from the sound as if it were a wild beast tossed among them.

"What's happening?" One of the kids shouted, terror lacing the voice as the howls of agony continued to echo around them.

"I don't know, I don't know," Sandy sobbed, covering her ears as she scrabbled away from the thrashing body in front of her. Nothing like that ever happened before when she'd shared power with someone.

While the other kids jerked away from Zen's convulsing body, Malcom leaped forward. Unlike the rest of them, he could see. The pearly white sphere representing Zen's power now looked like a bag of angry cats. Colors and textures swirled together, clashing instead of working together or becoming what Zen needed them to be.

"Malcom!"

"I gotta," he shouted back, slipping out of Sandy's desperate grab. He pounced on Zen's bucking body and locked one tiny arm around the broken mutant's chest. With the other, he brought his hand up and began stroking the air above Zen's head. Eyes closed, he struggled to smooth the colors, to smudge the textures together. _Like this_ , he coaxed the power as he forced it to blend like chalk on a large piece of cardboard.

Zen's desperate scream died down to a choked gasp as Malcom worked. Slowly, the convulsions died down to trembles. Air tore in and out of his lungs at a frightening pace, but it no longer looked like Zen's body would rip itself apart from the strain.

"There we go," Malcom whispered. "Just like that." He continued to force the power to flow the way it should, never once realizing that he'd never tried anything like this before.

It took another five minutes for him to blend the colors to his satisfaction. They weren't quite the same pearly white they should be, more a dusky gray with tiny flashes of other colors floating along the edges, but it would have to do.

* * *

"Did we kill him?"

The tiny, frightened voice drifted down to Zen where he floated in the heart of his mind. Every nerve ending felt scorched as if he'd taken two or three bolts from Storm, and he could still feel the weight of the chains wrapped around him, pulling him down, demanding his submission.

_The children_.

Yes, his duty. He had to save them. Forcing breath in and out of his tortured lungs, Zen took up his burden again and opened his eyes. "I am alive," he said, his voice hollow and dead.

Pietro cringed back at the sound. IX, not Zen. Shit. He swallowed hard, and said, "What are your orders?" The other kids jumped, their wide eyes flashing with animal fear as they looked from Pietro to Zen and back. Something wasn't right.

Staring up at the stone ceiling, the short mutant remained silent for a long moment before he spoke. "Protect . . . students. Defend . . . school."

"Good, that's good," tension bled out of Pietro and he almost fell over. At least the assassin hadn't regressed back into Stryker's dog. As long as he was still on their side, they had a chance. "We need to get out of here."

Scrambled thoughts began to smooth out as Zen sat up. He had to protect the children and save his wielder. They no longer had the luxury of playing wait and see. "Yes, it's time."

Before they could react, Zen vanished.

He reappeared in the security control center, and if the station hadn't been abandoned he would have lost his life as he fell, body shaking from the influx of pure agony as he tried to use his corrupted power. It felt like acid pouring through his veins, but he refused to give into the pain. Jerking to his feet, Zen stumbled to the bank of monitors. He typed through a series of commands and found what he was looking for.

The dam had been compromised, and the men smart enough to realize it abandoned the facility to its fate. A few lingered, too stupid, or too furious to flee, but the path from the students to freedom was relative open.

Something almost like fear churned in his gut, but Zen forced it away as he drew on the power again. Agony flooded his system for a second time as he reappeared in front of the door, but he was prepared for it this time and didn't allow it to drive him to his knees.

Reaching forward, he pressed his hand against the cold steel door. "Open," he whispered. The door obediently slid apart, revealing the frightened, furious children.

"What the fuck, man!" Pietro roared, but to Zen's surprise, the speed mutant didn't attack. Not that Zen was in any shape to stop him.

"Come, we don't have time," Zen said, deciding not to inform them that death hovered over their heads in the form of several tons of cement and countless gallons of water waiting to crush the life out of them. If he wasn't certain that his powers would give out if he tried, he'd teleport them all to safety, but with the corruption, he wasn't sure if they would make the leap in one piece or not.

"Is it safe?" One of the children squeaked. As much as they wanted freedom, now that the time came to leave their cage, they felt the crushing fear of any captive animal when faced with freedom in an unknown territory.

Somewhere deeper in the facility, they heard a deep rumble. "I will keep you safe, come on. Pietro, you take the rear guard, protect their backs." The speed mutant gave a mulish look but didn't open his mouth to argue. Perhaps the grinding sound of stone settling impressed upon him the importance of the situation. Either way, Zen was satisfied when he took his place at the back of the line. Though he'd rather not have to depend on the other teen, he knew Pietro could help protect the children.

Like a flock of startled ducklings who'd had the misfortune of imprinting on a bobcat, the children followed at Zen's back. He ignored their frightened whispers, trusting that Pietro would ensure none of his charges fell behind. Instead, Zen focused all his attention forward, hunting for danger.

They shuffled along deserted corridors, and none of the children dared ask where the guards were as they walked the halls unnoticed. A sound caught Zen's attention, and he froze. Malcom, whose wide brown eyes had been on everything but the man in front of him, bounced off Zen's back. "Ow," he whined, rubbing his nose, not knowing how close he'd come to setting the assassin off. Every muscle in Zen's body locked down on the instinctual reaction to attack in response to the unexpected touch.

"Watch where you're going," Zen snapped, a strange sharpness to his tone that made all the hair on Malcom's arms prickle. Tears gathered in the young boy's eyes, and he sniffled.

The sound roused Jubilee from her own frightened stupor. "Hey, don't talk to him like that," she said as she looped an arm around Malcom's trembling shoulders. Zen ignored her. "Are you listening to me," she demanded, glaring daggers at his back. Before she could react he turned and held out a hand.

They all felt a surge of something when he did so, perhaps because they'd all donated to his power, and it freckled their skin in goosebumps. "What was that?"

"Stay here, Pietro come with me." A chorus of voices rose up in protest, almost muffling the sound of Pietro's curse as he walked face first into the shield sphere holding the other children with its protective walls. Reaching out, he felt along the edges of the bubble until he'd made it around the group and to Zen's side.

"What do you think you're doing?" Pietro growled, looking between Zen and the frightened faces of the children.

Zen didn't dignify him with an answer as he turned and continued down the hall. Cursing, Pietro chased after him. Halfway down the hall he stopped and opened a door.

"Hello Doctor."

* * *

Irritation, hunger, thirst, exhaustion, and cold all churned inside Pietro, forming a tight ball of angry misery that wanted to find relief in beating Zen to a pulp. All of that froze, shattering beneath the hammer of Zen's words.

Keys clattered as the Doctor continued working at his console as if death hadn't just walked into the room behind him. He was humming under his breath, a sound Zen knew well from when he'd been forced to aid the man in his experiments. Not to mention the times he'd been the one under the butcher's knife.

"Ahh, so the dog returns to the kennel at long last," the Doctor all but purred, maliciousness flavored the undercurrent of the words, promising punishment for his long absence. Zen could almost feel the leash tighten around his throat, a choke collar to throttle him into obedience. _Protect the children._ No, the Doctor was no longer his master. "Report."

The single sharp word almost jolted a response from Zen's frozen lips.

Pietro's heart squeezed tight at the sight of the man truly responsible for his sister's death. The Doctor, the bastard who'd killed her spirit long before Zen killed the flesh. Rage, pure and shining as a sword held over a flame until it glowed with sullen heat, stabbed through him. Reaching out, he gripped Zen's left arm hard. "Don't," he growled.

With an effortless twist, Zen broke from his grasp and vanished, only to reappear behind the doctor. A quick chop to the back of the man's neck sent him sprawling without him ever having turned to look at them. Zen turned to Pietro and gave him a long considering look. His chipped emerald gaze moved from the still living body at his feet, up to Pietro and back again.

"What are your orders?"

At first, the words confused Pietro. Then understanding dawned, and with it a dark satisfaction as sweet and poisonous as dark chocolate laced with arsenic. Back when Zen offered his life as reparations for killing his sister, Pietro refused, but this? This was an apology he could get behind. On the farthest edges of this thoughts, he heard Xavier's voice admonishing him about the dangers of revenge, but it was drowned out by the ocean of hurt and rage this disgusting man caused not only him but every mutant who'd been forced to endure his cruelty.

"Kill him, but first," he hesitated, almost backing out, then he remembered the dead look in Wanda's eyes and the way she accepted the kiss of Zen's blade willingly to escape the monster's clutches. He didn't deserve Pietro's mercy. "But first, make him suffer," the last word exploded out of him, a poisonous hiss of air.

The barest ghost of a smile touched the corners of Zen's lips at the order. With the skill gained from helping the Doctor with countless test subjects, he had the unconscious body stripped and strapped down to one of the exam tables. One of the tables he, himself, had been strapped to on more than one occasion.

Pietro's nose wrinkled at the sight of the naked man, but he didn't protest. Instead, he stood a few feet away from the action, wanting to see everything. _This is for you, Wanda, I couldn't protect you, but I can damned well make him pay for what he did._ Maybe he'd even ask Zen if he could help. He watched the small assassin set up a tray with several scalpels lined up in two neat rows. _I wonder why he needs so many?_ Pietro couldn't help but wonder.

He found out as the Doctor began to stir. First, he tried to move, but the straps at wrists, ankles, thighs, chest, shoulders, and head kept him firmly in place. "What is the meaning of this," the Doctor shouted when he realized his position. Sharp, piercing blue eyes rolled around the room, flicking from Pietro, dismissing him at a glance, before settling on Zen. "I order you to release me this instant, IX."

"My name is Zen."

"Name," the Doctor sputtered, offended by the very thought. "Weapons don't have names."

Zen selected a scalpel. "This one does now."

For the first time since they'd met, the Doctor's eyes widened in fear as Zen stood over him. Light danced along the edge of the blood hungry blade, and that same hunger was reflected in Zen's merciless green eyes. "No. Y-you can't do this! I order you to release me. I ORDER YOU!"

"I am no longer your weapon." The blade descended slowly, allowing the Doctor to imagine the agony before it caressed his skin. The man tried to wiggle away, but the straps were too tight. Then he tried to suck in his gut in a futile effort to escape.

"Please, oh God, please don't," he gasped as the scalpel popped through the first layer of skin, sinking through the fatty layer and biting into muscle. The begging turned to screams of agony as Zen skillfully drew the sharp blade through his flesh with artistic strokes. He carved a capital I shape into the man's tender flesh. The first cut a long vertical line just below his ribs, followed by a horizontal line trailing straight down his belly to end above the groin. A second vertical line ended the I above the man's hips. As muscle gave way, the shrieking man's guts bulged out in an inviting mound.

Zen was careful not to damage the diaphragm, not wanting to end the torture too soon. Small, graceful hands folded back the twin flaps of skin, fully exposing the Doctor's abdominal cavity. It was as he was pinning the two flaps out of the way, using the line of scalpels as makeshift staples that he heard the gagging sounds.

He turned, blood soaking his hands to the wrists like a pair of morbid gloves, and stared at Pietro. The boy was half folded over, throwing up, and trembling like he was the one being tortured.

A low snort of disdain escaped Zen as he turned back to his task, dismissing Pietro's weakness as unimportant. With the care of a master surgeon, Zen extracted the intestinal track. A moment of focus healed over the ends, ensuring the man wouldn't bleed out. The snaking entrails fell to the ground with a wet plop a foot from Pietro's heaving form. A strangled scream escaped the teen as he back peddled so fast he fell on his ass. Turning, Pietro scrambled on hands and feet out the door.

Shaking his head, Zen turned back to his task. "Alone at last," he said to the man, whose screams had died down to muffled whimpers. He had to give it to the man, the Doctor had one hell of a high threshold for pain. He'd seen mutants reduced to gibbering messes of quivering flesh after less. "In your professional opinion, how many organs do you think I can remove before you die of shock?" Zen asked as he gave the Doctor's cheek a light slap, leaving a bloody hand print on the man's ashen face.

The Doctor refused to dignify the question with an answer. "Let's find out together, shall we?" Zen asked, unable to resist tormenting the man with the same sort of comments he'd once used on his victims. With that, the screams resumed as he extracted the stomach.

* * *

The nightmarish screams chased Pietro all the way down the hall, back to the children who were huddled together, eyes wide with terror. His stomach churned, wanting to revolt again, but having nothing left to give.

_That's what we've all been fucking with all this time? God!_ Terror ripped through him as he realized exactly what they'd all been messing with. Even though he'd seen Zen kill as IX on so many occasions, it was nothing at all like what he'd seen him do to the Doctor. Each of those deaths had been quick, an execution. No, not even that, a man putting down lab animals. He'd never been more brutal than he had to be, and it was always over quick.

_My fault._ He gagged, hugging himself and trembling as he leaned against the wall. Distantly, he could hear the kids shouting at him, terrified and demanding answered, but he couldn't talk to them, not yet. First, he had to wrap his mind around what Zen did. No, what he _told_ . . . **ordered** Zen to do.

_Make him suffer, make him suffer, dear God, make him suffer._ He hadn't appreciated how literally Zen would take the order. At most, he thought he might break a few bones, beat him up, hell, do the sort of shit they'd done to him at the school. Not . . . not gut him, and literally start taking him apart piece by piece. The sound of inner organs falling onto the floor played over and over again in his mind, the way they wiggled, the blood spattering off them in a macabre fan of color. _I didn't want this, I didn't. I just . . . I._

"Pietro, what the fuck is going on. If you don't answer me I'm going to zap the fuck out of you when I get out of here," Jubilee's furious shout finally broke through Pietro's jabbering thoughts. That girl didn't give idle threats, and her powers hurt like a bitch when she used them on people. He knew first hand.

Pietro licked his lips, cringing at the bitter taste of bile as he straightened and tried not to look like a kicked dog. "Uh, Zen . . . well, we," he faltered, not sure how to explain. No that wasn't it. He didn't want to put it into words. He didn't want to expose his shame. Steeling himself, he forced the words from his lips. He'd given the order, now he had to live with it.

More shrill, agonized screams echoed up and down the hallway, filling the silence and making the children press even closer together. "We found the Doctor," Pietro said flatly, forcing the words out. "And Zen is dealing with him."

"Dealing with? Oh my God, what is he doing?" Jubilee whispered, horror filling her voice as the screams ratcheted up another notch. Then her eyes narrowed as she studied his guilt ridden face. "What did you do," she demanded as her hand slapped hard against the invisible wall between them.

Pietro took a sharp, pained breath like her words were a blow he had to recover from. Then he looked up, dark eyes glaring into hers with all the riotousness of the damned. "I'm getting my revenge, Wanda's revenge, the revenge of every body and mind shattered beneath that bastard's cruel hand."

Instead of understanding, Jubilee scoffed. Her lips twisted in to a disgusted scowl while she glared at him like he was the most loathsome creature she'd ever had the misfortune of dealing with. "Revenge? Really. Is that why you're standing out here trembling?" Her words scalded him, but before he could muster a defense she continued. "You're as bad as the people who made this place," Pietro flinched, but her relentless words tore into him without pause. "Just like the Doctor and everyone else, you used Zen to do your dirty work. Used his hands to bleed someone else so yours could remain lily white. You're pathetic. This isn't revenge, it's nothing more than spite. If it was revenge, you'd be the one in there making that bastard scream instead of Zen. I can't believe you would force him back into this life just for your petty revenge after everything the Professor's done to try and break him free of this mindset. And you . . ." Rage shook her frame as she hit the wall again, jerking another flinch from Pietro's hunched form. "You turned Zen back into a weapon." Another gut-wrenching scream echoed down the hall, punctuating her vicious words.

Pietro's eyes studied the ground as he bowed under the weight of her condemnation. He could feel the eyes of the other children boring into him, judging him. "Well, I say he's suffered enough." That made his head snap up, and unwillingly her eyes captured him again. "You'd better go finish this, Pietro, or by God don't you bother coming back."

He opened his mouth, wanting to protest, but whatever he might have said was lost under another inhuman scream of agony. Pietro's jaws snapped shut and with a final weak glare, he turned on his heal and forced himself to walk back to the slaughterhouse.

* * *

The sound of screams drew X down a different hallway, away from the holding cells. He knew the pitch of those sounds. While IX was never one to play with a kill, when ordered, he could be quite creative when it came to torture. A savage grin slid across his lips, exposing sharp teeth as he fell into a ground eating lope.

Within seconds he made it to the blood soaked room. He entered as Zen pulled out the Doctor's liver, earning another high pitched squeal as he neatly healed the severed arteries before letting the organ join the other discarded body parts on the floor.

In the back of their shared mind, Logan felt himself mentally gag at the sight of the tiny blood stained male, the open, still living body strapped to the table, and the gaping hole in the man's lower abdomen where organs used to be. It was the stuff of nightmares, and for once the faint scent, almost hidden under the wash of blood, of Zen, didn't move him.

His body and X had a much different reaction to the scene, and Logan cringed when he realized there would be no stopping this time. Instead of even trying, Logan threw a single complex thought at X before fleeing into the depths of their shared mind. He couldn't cope with the idea of fucking the kid, not when he was still covered in blood and was in the midst of happily torturing someone.

* * *

**Warning:** Lemon starts here!

* * *

Zen studied his work with a critical eye. From the Doctor's heaving diaphragm to his now empty pelvis, the lower caverns of his body were picked clean. He ran a hand along the smooth pink surface of exposed muscle. It twitched away from his touch, drawing another almost smile to his lips. Then he sensed something unexpected and the twitch of his lips grew slightly as large arms circled his waist, pulling him back against a hard chest.

He didn't have to turn to know it wasn't Logan behind him. Not with the teeth sinking into his shoulder with brutal force. Every muscle in Zen's body relaxed as he sank into the pain, but unlike ever other time, heat flared too. It spilled into him from where X's mouth met his flesh, forming a burning line from lips to his groin. Pain and pleasure built an inferno in the smaller weapon, driving all rational thought from his head as a low moan fell from his slightly parted lips.

This was so much more than the dreams, better than the thoughts he conjured when he could no longer tolerate the desperate need nagging at him. Every nerve caught fire at once, sending his mind reeling. Then one of the large hands slid down, cupping his burning shaft. Zen cried out, his hips bucking up into the touch, desperate for more than his logical mind could comprehend. Behind him, X growled, sending a deep thrum down his spine and jerking another cry from his lips.

_Don't forget the mission._ The unwanted thought itched at the back of Zen's mind, cutting into the heat and forcing his body to stiffen, his fingertips dug into the meat of the Doctor, tearing a ragged scream from the bound man. It helped ground him, but it wasn't enough to extinguish the fire building inside of him.

"I have my orders," Zen said, the normal monotone trembled slightly as sharp claws hissed down his back, shredding his shirt while caressing his skin. With a twitch of his shoulders, Zen let the torn material fall, leaving his upper half naked for X's hot mouth to explore.

Zen kept his eyes locked on his victim while hot teeth and a brazen tongue traced the delicate curve of his spine. It took an ungodly amount of effort to focus through the inferno blazing inside of him and he couldn't keep the low hiss of his breath through clenched teeth silent as his back was marked by X's sharp bites. Each one drove his need higher, making it nearly impossible to remember what he needed to do.

With a shaking hand, still soaked in blood, Zen reached out to a bowl he'd set on the table before he began. He almost knocked the whole thing over when his pants were ripped from his body. "X." Zen tried to make the word sharp, a command, but it came out as a gasp. Grabbing a fist full of rock salt, he threw it into the gaping cavern where the Doctor's innards used to be. The bound man gave a feeble croak of agony, satisfying the tiny assassin. His orders were to make the man suffer, and suffer he would until Zen could get back to him.

_We don't have time for this_ , he thought, but it was a distant nagging, easily ignored in favor of the wicked male at his back. Another sharp cry escaped his lips as X's fist slid over his heated shaft.

The small sound broke whatever thin resolve might have been holding X's leash. With another sharp growl, X turned his little mate and tossed him up onto one of the exam tables. The breath exploded out of Zen in a sharp huff as X's mouth found him again. His hot tongue danced over blood soaked skin, cleaning the flesh, and coating hot skin in his scent. Zen's fingers tangled in X's hair as the feral's mouth closed over one nipple, giving the tender flesh as sharp bite as he flicked the tiny bud with the tip of his tongue. Fire scorched Zen's skin, so hot it almost became pain as his senses were overloaded.

Then the pleasure intensified as X's hard shaft slid along his own burning length. The mind-numbing pleasure drove a cry from Zen as he arched, grinding himself against X's body, desperate for things he didn't understand and couldn't name. "Please," he gasped.

At the sound of Zen's plea, X growled and sat up, earning another sharp cry from his mate. Logan's parting thought flared in his mind, not words but images, what he'd need to do to take Zen without harming the much smaller male.

Kneeling he dipped his head forward and ran his cheek along Zen's stiff cock. He buried his nose in the crisp curls, dragging in the mouthwatering aroma of Zen. The hands in his hair gave an impatient jerk, earning a low rumbling growl of amusement. His large hands closed around slim hips, and in a single brazen move, he dipped his head forward, taking the full length of his mate in a single swallow. Zen screamed as he arched up off the table, wide eyes staring down at X's head between his legs as pleasure crashed through his body in uncontrollable waves. He felt like he'd drowned under the onslaught of stimulation as X's head began to move.

The twisting heat began to build inside Zen, a familiar yet so much bigger feeling than any he'd experienced while pleasuring himself. He choked on air, caught between urging X on, and jerking him away, afraid of the overwhelming emotion boiling his insides.

Just before the sensations could sweep him away, X stopped. A snarl escaped Zen's lips, his mind too far gone to form coherent words. Then X moved, forcing his legs up and back, exposing another part of him to that heated mouth. Another inarticulate cry escaped the tiny assassin as X's hot tongue swiped over his exposed hole. Shudders wracked him with shocked pleasure as the feral's tongue explored him and he couldn't stop the near sob of pleasure as teeth scraped across sensitive flesh.

Pain twined like lighting through the pleasure as one of X's fingers joined the dance of tongue and teeth, adding new depth to the storm of sensations tearing through Zen's psyche. Time fractured and fell away as his body opened under X's burning touch. Another sharp cry tore from his throat when one of X's fingers brushed against something inside the smaller male. With a low, satisfied growl, X focused on the small bundle of nerves.

Once more the pleasure built to unbearable levels, an again X pulled away. This time Zen almost sobbed from frustration before the world flipped as X turned him over. A sharp scream cut through Zen's pleasure haze, and he turned his head in time to see X's hand pull back from a fresh gash on the Doctor's side, blood slick fingers stroked over X's hard cock, making Zen's breath catch in his throat as he stared at the slick organ.

A soft growl rumbled in the large man's chest as he blanketed his mate with his own body. Teeth sank into the back of Zen's neck in the same instant that X's cock breached him. Pain flooded his system, but he arched into it, savoring the bite of it as flesh married into flesh, for an instant turning them into a single being of painful pleasure.

"Oh my fucking God!"

X reared up, driving himself in to Zen in a single hard, startled push. Zen's sharp scream was echoed by X's roar of fury as he half turned to glare at Pietro whose face drained of blood as he once more turned to flee the blood soaked room.

Turning back to his mate, X nuzzled his neck, licking the wound softly as he kept still. Zen's breath tore from his lungs in harsh gasps as he stained against the massive cock buried inside of him. Finally, the burn began to ease as another heat forced it back. He gave a low, guttural whine. The sound was answered by X's rumbling growl as he began to move.

Pain and pleasure danced along the tiny assassin's nerves, and he could hardly breathe around the fire engulfing his entire being. Each thrust drove the pleasure in deeper as it stroked over his prostate, and then X's hand found his hard shaft. Zen gave a choked cry as rough fingers closed over him, squeezing and stroking in time to the deep thrusts.

As Zen threw his head back, a final scream on his lips as the pleasure crested, X's teeth sank into his neck a final time as he drove himself into the small body.

* * *

End of Lemon

* * *

Pietro huddled against the wall outside the door with his hands covering his ears while humming tonelessly to himself in a vain effort to drown out the sounds of two serial killers fucking. If only he could get the image burned in his mind to go away as easily. No matter how hard he tried to banish it, all he could see was blood streaked skin, X's naked body slamming into Zen, the roar of X's voice as he interrupted their 'alone time'.

"That didn't happen, that's not happening, hmmmhmmmhmmmm," he whispered to himself, but it wasn't quite loud enough to cover the sound of Zen's passionate screams. Dear God, who would have thought the robot had it in him to be a screamer? Fuck! Bad thoughts, so many bad thoughts. After this was over, he'd never be able to sleep again.

Something touched his shoulder. A scream tore itself from Pietro's throat as he tried to run, only to fall over his own feet. His eyes snapped open to find Zen standing over him. A very naked, very bloody Zen. He almost screamed again before he covered his eyes and yelled, "Damn it, Zen, go put some clothes on!"

Instead of replying, or vanishing in that strange way he had, Zen reached out and jerked Pietro to his feet. "Wha-"

"Come on, it's time to finish it."

"Would you please put some clothes on first?" He whined, but the complaint was ignored. Pietro did his best to walk with his eyes pointed towards the ceiling and almost ended up falling flat on his face when his foot skidded on a piece of the Doctor he refused to try and identify.

All the embarrassment vanished in a wash of sickness as he took in the room. Organs littered the floor, leaving splashes of drying blood that reminded him vividly of the cages and the endless lake of blood that marred the space. Now it was the Doctor's blood, but looking at it, he couldn't tell the difference. _Your hands will be as bloodstained as theirs._ Xavier's words haunted the teen as he tried to look away only for his head to jerk towards the table when the mutilated form gave a shrill cry.

A scalpel was embedded in the man's left knee. With an elegant twist, Zen jerked it free. "S-s-stop," Pietro choked out. Zen turned and gave him a long considering look. "Do you want to finish it?" Again he flipped the blade, now soaked in blood, and held it out to him.

_You turned him into your weapon._

Guilt spilled into Pietro's guts like acid, eating away at him as he looked at the blank faced assassin. He tried to see Zen, but all he could find in the man standing before him, nude and covered in blood, was IX. He'd done that, stripped the little bit of humanity his roommate managed to develop during his time at Xavier's school away, leaving behind the tiny killer. Was it fair of him to demand another death from the assassin? Would it be fair to Wanda to let someone else have their revenge?

Could he really take a life? Even the life of a cockroach like the Doctor?

With trembling fingers, Pietro reached out to take the scalpel.

* * *

Shock jittered up and down Alicia Vargas nervous system. She sat on the floor of the Oval Office, knees up to her chest and her back resting against one of the twin couches that bracketed the presidential seal emblazoned in the carpet of the room. Just ten minutes ago her whole body had been wracked with an agony she'd never experienced before. It felt like she was being pulled limb from limb while being burned alive. In that first flood of agonized terror, she thought the nuns' promise of hell was real and had reached up a clawed hand from the depths to pull her under. Distantly, she could hear the President shouting for help, staffers and agents flocked around her as they made way for the doctors.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the pain vanished. Alicia felt fine. She stumbled over an embarrassed apology while her boss continued insisting on a full debriefing. Someone in the background muttered darkly about how this was probably another breed of mutant attack.

Before they could begin to sort it out, everyone else in the room dropped to the floor screaming. She still felt fine, but now they were dying on the ground, and the offhand comment about mutant attacks struck her like a dagger to the heart. It made her wish she'd died a few minutes ago. When she was dying, they were fine. Now they were dying, and she felt perfect. Did that mean? Could she be a mutant? Dear God, no.

Alicia shook her head. It didn't matter now. All that mattered was the fact that she was an agent of the United States Secret Services, and it was her duty to protect the president. That made him her sole concern.

Unholstering her weapon, she inched across the floor, snatching up a few discarded guns as she went while she fought herself for the strength to regain her feet. The President was lying in a heap on the floor behind his desk. Alicia took a deep breath and shoved his chair off his legs before she settled with her back against the wall so that she had a clean line of sight of both entrances into the room. Gently, she shifted the President's head until it rested in her lap while she kept her Glock in her free hand. Beside her, she lined up the extra weapons, just in case. She slipped a handkerchief out of her pocket so that she could dab at the blood oozing from his nose and eyes.

"What's happening?" he choked, causing another bright line of blood to drip from his parted lips.

"I don't know, Sir, but I'm here. I'm well and I'll do all I can to keep you safe."

George McKenna found it impossible to care about himself in that moment. The title of President didn't matter now. His life as a man didn't matter. The only two titles that held any meaning for him in that blood stained moment were as husband and father and the sharp sting of bitterness he felt at being so far from his loved ones. While he knew he had little hope of a miracle, he found himself praying for his wife, he prayed with all he was and with the last bit of coherent thought he had left that they would be spared this terrible end. He prayed for mercy.

*.*.*

The crowd below the pontiff's balcony milled in confusion as they parted for the various teams of paramedics to reach those who'd taken ill before the pope's appearance. He'd spoken with one of the secretaries to make the proper inquiries before he proceeded with the scheduled events of the day.

In an instant, things changed. Now only a small handful of people remained standing both on the plaza and inside the Vatican. Elisabeth Braddock, who'd decided to use her free day before driving to Milan to showcase Giorgio Armani's couture line for the fall show to see the pope speak, eased herself off the gurney she'd been placed on after collapsing. Blood painted her face in gaudy lines from her nose and eyes. It dripped down onto the front of her new dress, a linen, expensive, and designed specifically for her by Kay Cera, was now totally ruined. Her artfully painted lips twisted into a scowl as she saw more blood gushing from the eyes, ears and noses of everyone she could see.

Taking a slow breath, Betsy cracked open the gates of her mind and let a single tendril of mental power ease out to dance across the plaza in an attempt to find the cause for the mass affliction. She staggered, tried to grab the handrail on the back of the ambulance to keep from falling, and failed. Pain jolted up her knees as the dress ripped, but it was a distant sensation, unfelt under the crushing weight of realization that slammed into her mind. It was so much worse than she thought. Not just the Plaza, or Vatican City. People were collapsing all throughout Rome.

She found herself thankful that her powers had limits, even though she couldn't sense it, something told her that she would find the same no matter how far her mind sought. The only people who appeared unaffected were the ones like her, who'd fallen under the first onslaught. Looking around, she realized one of the others now standing was a mutant like her. It didn't take a genius to put the pieces together. Someone somewhere had attempted to take out mutants the world over, and now the tables were turned.

"No," she gasped, "Please, don't let this be happening, for the sake of God, please stop!"

Her desperate cry fell on deaf ears, or perhaps it had been drowned out by the screams of the masses as extinction reached out to snuff them out.

*.*.*

_This is all Bobby's fault, he knew I called the cops, this is his revenge_ , Ronny Drake thought as pain tore through him. But he'd never thought his brother would be so cruel as to actually kill him for it. Brothers were meant to look out for each other, that's what their parents always told the, and that's how Bobby used to act before he went away to that weird school. Desperate sobs tore from his chest as he clutched at his bedspread and called out weakly for his mom. Why wouldn't she answer him? Fear clawed at him, so big he thought it would destroy him alongside the pain. He'd never understood how awful and all-consuming fear could be until now.

Ronny snatched every breath and counted each heartbeat, cherished each disjointed thought as he weighted them all against scenes from the movies and TV show's he'd seen, the video games he'd played. But unlike all of those, this was reality. There would be no extra lives, no turning the channel. He didn't want to die. That thought repeated again and again in his mind.

_I don't want to die, I don't want to die, I don't want to die._

Sobbing and wailing, Bobby felt each exhale tear out of his chest and guts as the waves of energy seemed to rip him apart from the inside out. Blood streaked his face and it splashed in haphazard patches over his pillow, sheets, and the wall beyond. His vision blurred in and out and he figured he'd be blind before the end and wished desperately for the end to come soon to take the pain away.

Ronny told his brother he was sorry.

He wished he was a mutant, too, so they would be together. And as his life flickered like a dying ember, he found it in himself to hate Charles Xavier with all his young and passionate heart, blaming the wheelchair bound man for stealing his brother away from the home that had raised him, the parents who loved him, and the brother who needed him so badly.

*.*.*

The floor of the New Your Stock Exchange was littered with hundreds of thrashing, screaming bodies.

*.*.*

Over a thousand feet below the surface of the Pacific, the crew of the fleet ballistic missile submarine _Montana_ lay screaming.

*.*.*

Silence stretched endlessly in the small confines of the space shuttle _Endeavor_ as the seven astronauts waited for contact to be reestablished with ground control. They'd been doing routine housekeeping with Mission Control at Houston's Johnson Space Center when there was a succession of garbled noises intermixed with what sounded like screaming.

After that, nothing.

"Endeavor to Houston, Endeavor to Houston. Do you read Houston?" The mission commander scowled and switched channels. "CapCom, this is Endeavor, do you read?" Nothing switched again. "Edwards flight control, is there anyone down there?" he demanded. Again he flipped to another channel. "Cheyenne Base, do you read? NORAD ops, this is Endeavor, please respond." Finally, he switched over to 121.5, the international distress frequency, "Any station, any station, please respond. Is anyone down there?" Peter Coubear whispered, "anyone at all?"

Static was the only answer.

As far as they knew, they were alone, the only human beings left alive.

* * *

A shudder of revulsion twisted Pietro's gut as his fingers closed around the blood slick weapon. _I'm not really going to do this, am I?_ The thought dried up all the spit in his mouth, but he found his feet taking him towards the wreck of a man still strapped to the table. His dark eyes jittered from the gaping hole in the man to his face, and he found it hard to decide which was worse – the bloody scraps of humanity left from IX's _creative_ interpretation of Pietro's orders, or the screaming animal madness blazing from the Doctor's eyes.

There was nothing sane left there, even though the man had never been the sanest of individuals. Now, even his twisted yet brilliant intellect was gone. The crazed blue eyes didn't track Pietro's movement, and looking into them made the speed mutant want to turn and run screaming from the room.

_Can I do this?_

At this point, he'd be helping the man. As tempting as it was to latch onto that thought, Pietro refused. He wasn't putting down a dog who'd been hit by a truck. He was taking a life. Acid burned on the back of his tongue, making each breath sting.

Jubilee's words spurred him on. _This is our revenge, mine and yours Wanda. I won't let anyone else take it from us._

Clenching his teeth, he glared down into the ruined face of the man who'd broken his sister and was in turn broken by the very weapon who'd spilled her blood. That thought stilled his hand briefly as understanding slotted into his mind of what Xavier meant about IX. Orders. His words drove IX to this cold, calculated destruction. Someone else's words moved the other mutant to slit his sister's throat. A cleaner death for sure, but still. IX didn't choose to do either thing, the choice was made for him and he moved based on the will of others. _So wrong._

Pietro closed his eyes. "For you, dear sister," he breathed as he laid the blade against the Doctor's throat.

Again, his hand refused to move that last millimeter, refused to open the throat of the one who'd wronged him and his beloved sister. Again, he found himself standing on the ragged edge of revenge, yet unable to move forward. Rage blazed in his heart as tears slid down his cheeks, blurring his vision.

"Damn you," he hissed as he started to jerk the blade away, only for his wrist to be caught in a vice like grip. Pietro jumped, he hadn't even noticed the tiny assassin standing next to him, still covered in blood and totally nude. "What?" he demanded while trying to jerk his wrist free of the surprisingly strong grip.

"Relax," IX's dead voice caused shivers to erupt down Pietro's spine. It was like Death telling you to smile. Then he felt his hand inch forward, regaining the small bit of space he'd put between the blade and the Doctor's neck until the blade once more rested against sweaty skin. Understanding blazed in Pietro's mind a second before the first drop of blood spilled. _No._ His lips shaped the word, but his frozen vocal cords shouldn't squeeze it out past the pounding of his own heart.

_No,_ he thought again as hot ruby liquid splashed across his chest when the arteries gave way under the steady, relentless pressure IX applied to his wrist. It was only later, much later, that Pietro realized he could have let go of the scalpel. IX only moved his wrist, but it was his hand that kept the blade steady as it cut through flesh.

The body on the table gave a final jerk before a bubbly breath escaped, it didn't draw another.

_He's dead._

_I killed him._ The realization did nothing to ease the ocean of agony living where his heart used to be.

His death didn't bring Wanda back.

His death changed nothing.

* * *

**Author's Note** : *Clears throat awkwardly* Soooo, hi? Yeah, I'm not actually dead. I'm surprised too. It's been a while. Like a whole year. I'm sorry! I know, I know, this is the part where I tell you all that I had a very good reason for dropping off the face of the earth and all that…

And I do!

For reals, in August of 2016 I got pregnant and learned the hard way that pregnancy and writing weren't working out for me. I had no focus at all, and my brain had turned into fig pudding. Everything I wrote turned out to be a pile of crap, so I stopped writing.

Well, on May 2nd, I gave birth to a healthy baby boy who was 8 lb 8 oz. We're both doing great, and I thought it was high time I got back to writing.

Forgive me?

If anyone is still reading, thank you for all your support. It means the world to me.


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